


You and I Collide

by winter_angst



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Boarders, Grieving, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Palmarola, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Jack is a painter on a mission that lands him at Brock's home as a boarder. Things get complicated when he falls for his host.Brock is a chef on the off season who reluctantly takes in a boarder. Getting feelings for him was the absolute last thing he expected.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> title: Collide by Howie Day
> 
> TJ is a borrowed character from the lovely FantasticWinter

A lone sandpiper hopped along the beach, its tiny beak vanishing into the wet sand before it bounced along looking for more invertebrates. Turquoise waves lapped at its feet and it took to the air, fluttering a moment before landing less than a foot from its last location and carried on. The landscape behind the beach was made of crumbling rock towers, jutting rocks and cliffs toned red, brown and a purple which rose almost ominously, stretching into the bright blue sky. The sand on the beach was soft as powder, white and peppered with pink from the coral debris sweeping in with the tide. A second sandpiper joined the first but they ignored each other both singularity focused. The newcomer swept away, dissatisfied, and soared past a little boy, no older than seven or eight who ran across a white and pink speckled beach, kicking up sand as he went. He was holding the hem of what once was beige shirt, now stained with a deep blue, near purple color. The boy was in a hurry, racing past an ocean clear and sparkling blue. He paused to catch his breath, just for a moment, and then dashed off again. He jumped up off the beach onto the rock separating from the rest of the island from the picturesque beach front. He sped past a squat building hosting three apartamentos. One inhabitant turned to watch the boy go and then turned back loading tackle equipment into a hatchback car. 

The boy was far from home it seemed as he kept running. Past the bilocales and trilocales, and up a steep, dirt path. He paused by a fence to catch his breath and then he continued his great journey -- and great it was with the progress he was making. Shrubbery lined the way, a twisting weaving space that the fauna had allowed. Finally his destination appeared on the horizon: a casa padronale. It stood proud, though dated, with stucco walls and traditional arches. It was two stories, the top floor concrete with stone inlaid into it. How long the house had stood was a mystery to its dwellers. It had stood many years before them and it would stand after many years after them.

Outside of it stood a man, no more than five ten, with his hands on his hips looking displeased. The little boy wasn’t deterred by the less than warm welcome, if anything he grinned, cheeks flushed. 

“I got ‘em daddy. Before you even woke up, I got ‘em see?” 

“And you ruined your shirt while you were at it,” he said with a sigh. “I almost got the eggs without you.” 

For the first time the little boy’s happiness seemed to halt and seeing this, the man sighed. 

“I didn’t but next time you run off without telling me -- or without your shoes and sweater -- you won’t be so lucky.” 

“I picked a lot,” the boy pointed out in justification. 

He stepped forward to see them -- fat blue juniper berries were leaking juice into the linen shirt the boy had put on. “Let’s get these in a bowl and your shirt taken care of.” 

The berries were rolled into a bowl to be cleaned once the eggs were in. The shirt went into a tub with fifty percent vinegar and water. And a new one -- plus a sweater -- was put on him. The boy took a wicker basket in hand and they two went to the back where a pen of goats and a coop of chickens. He selected the eggs and the chickens tolerated his presence. Soon the basket was full and the boy skipped inside. Brock set aside the eggs and took from the bowl, preparing scrambled eggs. The window above the sink was framed with a line of cupboards on both sides. The sink itself was a great white farm sink, a checkered washcloth draped over the side waiting to clean up breakfast. 

“Wash your hands, TJ.” 

TJ looked disappointed at the request but washed his hands under the tap and skipped back to the table where he waited patiently for breakfast, humming. He had chocolate curls and big wide blue gray eyes that were earnest and honest. He was a bit small for his age but his heart and energy made up for it. He’d lived in this house for as long as he could remember. Just him and his daddy now that papa had passed away. But papa had made him promise not to be sad he was gone but to be happy because they’d had so much fun together. TJ reminded himself that everytime he got sad that papa couldn’t take him to see the medusas. Daddy tried but it made him cry and TJ didn’t ask again; he didn’t like to see daddy cry. 

TJ’s daddy, Brock, was adding minced chives and cubed portabella mushrooms picked fresh while TJ got the eggs. He was a chef for a local restaurant during the summer for tourists who visited the island to view Cava Mazzela and the Rock Cathedral. It was their biggest attraction -- that and the beaches and scenery. During the off seasons he shut down their -- no, his -- restaurant. It had been four years and he still slipped up. Grant would have laughed and told him to stop living in the past. A sad smile pulled at his lips as he added ricotta to the pan. Before long he had a serving on each plate and he retrieved cups juice. Before long father and son were sitting across from each other. TJ dug in, definitely in need of fuel after his long journey. 

“We’re gonna crush ‘em right?” 

“And dry some.” Brock corrected and the boy’s fell a bit. “We'll have some stuffing to go along with our pork belly.” 

“Yum yum,” TJ said with his crooked smile. “Brining day, it’s brining day, brining day…” 

TJ sang quietly between bites and Brock prepared himself for what was going to be long, though rewarding, day. He used his pickled goods for the restaurant, the months spent brining inside the back fridge yielded great reward. And the fact that TJ enjoyed made the task of keeping him amused while also tending the stove worlds easier. Brock washed up the dishes while TJ kept watch over the berries, clearly worried about them up and running away. 

“They all still there?” 

“Yup,” TJ said with absolute seriousness. “I won’t let even one escape.” 

Brock smiled and told him he was doing a stand up job. TJ accepted the praise with a stiff nod, keyed in and focused. Brock got out the canning jars and the cutting board, dragging out the vegetables that had been resting for this day to come. He combined vinegar, salt, a hearty portion of juniper berries, mustard seeds and garlic to a big pot and set it to boil. While they waited Brock quizzed TJ on his addition. There wasn’t a school on Palmarola so any children who lived there were homeschooled. With Brock’s schedule it worked just fine. And it gave them flexibility needed for TJ who had a slight delay. It gave him one on one attention and that was important to Brock. It had been important to Grant. 

He started with pickled blueberries. He tossed them in a jar with two sprigs of rosemary, filled the can, screwed the top on and set it aside so it could reach room temperature. TJ’s job was an important one: it was his responsibility to pass the vegetable when requested. Next came the cucumbers, sliced and two sprigs of dill. Then pickles eggs and red onion. He left them out to reach room temperature, quizzing TJ on little history blurbs. Canning day would come next week but no more juniper berries would be needed which soothed any worries that Brock had about TJ going on an early morning adventure without him. 

The shrill ring of the phone caught him by surprise and TJ as well. Calls were a rarity. If anyone on the island needed something they came to your door. He sat down at the couch besides the corded phone and took it in hand. “Hello?” 

TJ stood in the archway, little head cocked in curiosity. 

“Ah, Brock,” a whiskey toned voice that Brock recognized as Ciro said. “Say, I’ve got this curious fellow here looking for an inn.” 

“There isn’t an inn,” Brock said, as the caller knew. He was a boater who ferried goods back and forth when he wasn’t sipping from his bottle and tossing out a line in the bay. 

“That’s what I told him and he asked if anywhere accepted boarders and I thought about you and your boy up in the big house. What do you say? He says he’ll pay.” 

Brock was startled into silence. He’d never accepted a boarder before, had never even considered it. A stranger? In his home? With TJ? “I don’t think -- ”

“I’ll pay,” a loud voice piped up. “Whatever you want. I won’t be a bother, I’m a painter, see.” 

His American accent was a secondary shock. He served Americans during the summer months but seeing one on the island was… Well, unheard of, as far as Brock knew. Brock’s eyes shut for a moment. “Tell him -- ”

“Ah, you tell him. I’m not a parrot.” 

Brock sighed impatiently as the phone exchanged hands. “I’m quiet,” the American said. “You won’t even know I’m there. Well… Except for meals. But I can get groceries if you’d allow me access to your kitchen. I’m a painter, in case you didn’t hear.” 

“If you’re here you might as well be fed with the two of us.” That and Brock didn’t want anyone in his kitchen. He had hardly allowed Grant in. “It’s just me and my son. He might pester you.” 

“I’m not easily pestered.” 

TJ seemed to catch on that someone was visiting because his eyes lit up. “I can give you access to the downstairs bathroom but there’s only a tub.” 

“I don’t mind a good soak.” 

It was clear that the man wouldn’t be turned off staying there and Brock now felt obligated since he spoke with him. “I’ll get fresh linens, I guess.” 

“You won’t regret it. I promise you’ll hardly notice me.” 

“And how long are you planning to stay?” 

“A month or two.” 

A month, Brock thought, alarmed. That was a long stretch of time. “I see.” 

They said their goodbyes and Brock set the phone on the receiver with a sigh. A painter? Brock was familiar with the art types, airy and flighty, working diligently. “Someone’s comin’ to visit us?” 

“Yes, someone from America.” 

“That’s where we’re from!” 

“That’s right.” 

“Is it a girl or a boy?” 

“He’s a man.” 

“Did he get here on a plane?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Will he tell me about it?” 

Brock went to the linen closet and TJ was a step behind him, peppering him with questions that made Brock increasingly uncomfortable with a stranger coming in his home. He made up the guest room, sweeping away dust bunnies as he looked around the room rarely stepped in. There were boxes of legal documents, deeds, bank notes and other odds and ends paperwork that Brock hefted up the steps and stored in the office. He stood back, dust particles were suspended in a ray of sun shining through the window. TJ leaned in, hanging on the door frame. “Are you gonna work on the ‘puter?” 

“Not right now.” He looked at the box computer, an Apple III that Grant insisted they splurge on to take over from the tedious type writing when it came to the restaurant paperwork and reports. Brock didn’t use it, a layer of dust settled on it like it belonged there. In Brock’s opinion it did. “How about you find the quilt in the chest in the closet.” 

“Okay!” 

TJ was a boy who was always happy to help. Whether they were big or little, he responded with the eagerness of someone performing something of incredible importance. Brock listened to his little feet retreating and looked at the dulled paint. Standing with rolled up jeans on step ladders with paint rolls and Bon Jovi in the background felt like yesterday. The first few days they ended up more on them than the wall as they got a hang on the art of painting. 

“What am I doing?” Brock asked and, like a fool, he waited for a reply. 

The painted walls offered ghosts of what was, not guidance. So he turned around and shut the door. Regardless of his feelings now, he had already agreed and the least he could do was be an agreeable host, especially someone who was staying with them. He decided he’d apologize for being so short on the phone when the boarder arrived. He made the bed, tucking in the edges. He opened a window to let the stale air out and pinned back to the curtains to let the light in. He stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, assessing what he’d done. He went to the kitchen, a shadowing TJ tailing along, and he took a small bowl of water and dusted off the armoire desk, pulling down the desk and all the drawers. He was a paying guest, he might as well have a clean space to do his art -- painting, Brock recalled. He wasn’t sure if painters used desks or not but he felt the option ought to be there. Nudging the chair back in he closed the door so the fresh air could properly circulate in the room. 

Brock was keyed up with nervous energy. They were neat for the most part, though TJ’s room left much to be desired, a spray of toys sprawled from the toy chest opposite TJ’s bed. The blankets were a knotted mess and though TJ tried to scurry away. “Oh no you don’t mister. You’re helping me with this.” 

“Do we gotta clean up ‘cos that man is staying with us?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m so excited.” 

Brock wished he could say the same but he couldn’t, so he offered a smile. Together clean up was done and over with in ten short minutes, the bed made, the blankets tucked, a stuffed turtle sitting nearly beside a stuffed wolf won from a claw machine on Venice beach when TJ was just barely four. He wondered what he’d do differently if he knew that he would be dead by that date in a year. Maybe he would have been less annoyed by Grant’s refusal to follow a schedule. Maybe he would have been more patient when Grant tried to decide what restaurant to go to. But maybes left Brock living in the past instead of appreciating the present. It wasn’t hard to deduce that was why he was so hesitant for a stranger to step into the house. Brock realized the entire house could do with a good clean though he knew was running very low on time. Jack would be understanding, he hoped, seeing as he was an impromptu guest. But people rarely said what they were thinking under the guise of politeness and Brock hated the idea of Jack harboring negative thoughts against his ability to keep his house. 

The house itself wasn’t dirty. The carpets were vacuumed and the windows washed. There was dust where there was little activity but sure that happened in all homes. The counters were a bit cluttered, especially with the pickling he’d done. Speaking of the house smelled of pickling juices. It wasn’t off putting to Brock and TJ who were more than used to it but for this visitor might be. Having a smelly house was to be feared more than an untidy one. He opened up the windows and prepared a greeting apology. For a moment he wondered why he bothered, why he was allowing himself to stress over something that this boarder had walked into. He knew he was unexpected so surely Brock deserved some leeway in judgement. He couldn’t quite manage to convince himself of that but he held onto hope regardless. TJ was tuned into the energy filling every crevice of the house. He was too little to distinguish anticipation and nerves so he channeled it all into the emotion he knew best: excitement. 

He was practically vibrating as he ran from one end of the house to the other looking out the window. TJ wanted to see their visitor and he wanted to see them now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tries to get on Brock's good side and TJ doesn't like tomatoes.

I could paint that, Jack thought as he paused on the dirt road. The farmhouse loomed ahead beneath an indigo sky. It was aged but modern, sitting near a cliff wall. There was a yard and wooden fence. He could see a glimpse of fencing behind as well which he imagined were animals. Yes, he could paint that. Maybe he would, should his host allow it. He liked to ask before transferring private properties to canvas. No one had refused yet -- everyone harbored that secret need of being recognized and remembered. To be made immortal, frozen in time. Jack thought everyone was art, everyone and everything and things that didn’t exist yet. History was measured in art, from caveman drawings to abstract art, impacts were made that were trivial at the time. Maybe, in a hundred years, Jack would still be trivial, his painting one of thousands, hundreds of thousands -- hell, maybe even millions -- of pieces of art. And if he wasn’t regarded as a famed painting that was fine. Just knowing his art would be seen in future was okay. 

Jack was a tall slim man with a plain face. He had a small scar on his chin and a bone structure passed down from all the Rollins before him. He had a suitcase in one hand and an easel in the other. It had been a long walk from bay to the Rumlow Residence. Ciro, the captain of the vessel that had brought him to the beautiful, sparsely inhabited island of Palmarola, said Brock Rumlow was a chef and a bit ‘funny’ and a son about bit ‘slow’ though he didn’t elaborate on what that meant when asked. He just assured Jack that he was a good man and would do well by him. Mr. Rumlow hadn’t sounded too keen in letting Jack stay so he was ever so grateful that he was swayed. He wouldn’t be a bother, he’d keep to himself and appease the man who had kindly granted him a roof over his head. 

He stopped staring and went back to walking but a figure was coming towards him. A little boy with a mop of curls and a smile as wide as the sky above them. “Hi! Hi! Hi!” he cried, getting closer and closer until the boy realized just how close he was and backed away looking frightened by his overeagerness. 

“Hi,” Jack returned to be friendly. “I’m Jack.” 

“TJ!” a man called, hurrying towards them. “TJ, I told you to stay inside.” 

TJ, the little boy, spun around. “But he’s here daddy. Look!” 

Mr. Rumlow was a fine looking man. A bit shorter than him with a proud quiff of brown hair and warm brown eyes. He was American as well, by his accent, though he looked like he could be Italian. He very well could have been, of course. Maybe he had moved to America and back again. Maybe he was born in America but migrated back. Speculations were a waste of time, Jack reminded himself. He tried to soak in what he saw in life and what he could see was to be imagined not speculated on. Hmm. 

“I’m Brock,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes and thank you again for allowing me to stay here.” 

The tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip. “My pleasure,” he said in a tone that told Jack it certainly wasn’t. He’d have to find a way to win his favor or else the entire month would feel like years. “Let me take that….” 

He reached for the suitcase and Jack let him take it, arm a bit sore. “I can’t thank you enough,” Jack said again. “And what a beautiful house. Do you mind if I paint it?” 

“My house?” Brock looked warily at it as if he didn’t see the beauty in it. If that was the case it sure was a shame. “I suppose, if you really want to.” 

“Thank you.” Jack heard the call of a rooster. “You have chickens?” 

“Six and a mean old rooster,” TJ volunteered. “And we have Oregano and Thyme and Dill and Paprika and Cloves and Pepper. The rooster's name is Grouch because he’s grouchy.” 

Those were certainly names a chef would select. Well, except for Grouch. “I see.” 

“The rooster crows at six sharp. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Jack suspected that Brock hoped he would mind. He frowned. He was a likeable man, the kind of guy that someone talked to with ease because of his friendly demeanor. Of course Jack was invading his space by foolishly assuming there’d be an inn on an island such as this. He’d just have to play his cards right to get into Brock’s good graces. “Early bird gets the worm.” 

Brock snuck a look back at him that Jack caught. Quickly he resumed looking forward. The hill leveled out and a dusty red Fiat sat was parked off to the side, clearly rarely used. “Do you walk to most places?” 

“Yes.” 

“That sounds nice. Rome is go-go-go all the time. It’s been nice to step away from it. Take in the countryside -- and ocean side.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

Brock was one tough nut to crack. Thankfully Jack could fill in conversation on his own. A vice, according to his grandmother but a gift according to his mother. He figured they cancelled each other out and his skill was just as is. “I’ve been traveling for about six months now, painting and sending them back home. This is my first time in Italy, however. I spent some time in Rome and Turin -- both beautiful places… Have you been?” 

“Rome, not Turin.”

“Oh, I highly suggest it. It’s a bit busy, especially compared to this. Well, compared to this I’d say it is very busy. But I digress,” Jack paused to take a breath. “How long have you lived here?” 

“A while.” 

“Was it passed down?” 

“No, we bought it.” Brock silenced himself, as if he’d said too much. They were at the door now so Jack didn’t get a chance to prod. “I’ll show you your room. TJ, please stay down here.” 

The boy kicked up a bit of a fuss but a look from his father had him plopping down grumpily on the couch. Jack was led up a set of steep stairs and shown to a bedroom at the far hall. It boasted little more than an armoire, a single bed and a cramped closet. It was perfect. “I honestly cannot thank you enough.” 

Brock looked at him and clicked his tongue. “I’ll have lunch made in fifteen minutes.” 

“I’ll be there.” 

Brock just hummed and left Jack to take in the space. The window was open letting in a breeze, nice and cool with just the hint of the sea. He leaned over, looking through the screen at the brilliant blue ocean in the distance. Fall in Italy was warm, just under eighty degrees which, while it deterred swimming, was the perfect temperature to walk the beach, water up to his ankles. He was more creative when working with water. Something about its fluidity, its low malleability, just got the creative side of his brain churning out ideas, visions of what he wanted to bring to life. He unpacked his clothes and slid his easel between the bed and the armoire. He had a single canvas. Jack’s process was to paint, send it home, and buy a new one and he would repeat it as many times as it took until he felt he had painted the One. The One that artists sought, the pinnacle of their work, an artistic image of themselves that wanted to portray with utmost pride. 

And that was what had drawn Jack to Palmarola; the quest for the One, and failing that, an experience he could truly write home about. 

With his items stowed away he wandered back down the steps. Curiosity urged him to take a look around but he was already bordering on unwelcome as is. It was best to respect every area he hadn’t been shown as out of bounds. Brock’s back to him, a loaf of bread clearly homemade being cut into thick slices. In his travels Jack had seen both sides of home cooking: delicious and significantly less so. Cooking was art within itself, but one that everyone had to practice and not all were fortunate enough to excel at. Brock seemed to be the former, being a chef and all. The boy, TJ, was staring at him with an owlish look, eyes big and wide. Jack smiled and waved.

He lit up like a Christmas tree and waved enthusiastically. “I’m TJ,” he said again. “And-and I don’t know your name.” 

“Jack,” he reminded him. 

“Oh right, I knew,” TJ said. “And that’s my daddy and you can call him Brock. But not me. Right?” 

“Right.” Brock was now in the fridge and Jack caught sighed on the counter: a plump loaf of bread resting a dark wooden cutting board, slices dominoing on each other like something out of a photograph. The bread knife rested to the right of the loaf on the beige and brown mosaic countertop. A stack of sandwich plates were stacked neatly beside them. Brock was a very neat chef. “Do you like lettuce and tomatoes on your sandwiches, Jack?” 

“Yes please. Thank you.” 

“I don’t like tomatoes, they're the yuckiest. Even yuckier than squash and squash is really yucky.” 

“I think one you get a little bigger you’ll like yucky stuff. I used to hate tomatoes too.” 

TJ gaped at the the sacrilege. “Nuh-uh. I won’t ever like it. Ever. Right daddy?” 

“Someday you might,” Brock replied. 

TJ scoffed in disbelief and fled the room with a grumble. 

Brock didn’t seem too concerned, back to the counter and Jack took in the kitchen. It wasn’t huge but it was airy and bright. Jars of pickling vegetables and eggs rested by the sink which explained the vinegary smell in the air. He knew the smell. His grandmother’s house keeper had spent many hours pickling and canning vegetables from the stretching garden in the backyard. Grandmother would pass them out on holidays as though she had done it herself. Everyone knew she hadn’t but they fed into it. It wasn’t worth upsetting Grandmother, really. Jack thought everyone had a harmless delusion within them whether they wanted to face it or not. Jack’s may have been his faith in his own artistic abilities but maybe delusions could become real. Or maybe the idea that could be was a delusion. Hm. 

Brock was slathering the bread with thin sheen of mayo on one slice and grain mustard on the other. He folded roast beef skillfully, clearly something he’d done often. He pulled leaves of a lettuce off a head of butter leaf lettuce, notching notching out the stem with a paring knife Jack hadn’t even seen him picking it up. He sliced a roma tomato, one he recognized from his time spent visiting a small town in Mexico. He set aside the sandwich and pulled down a glass bowl. He sliced up onions, cucumbers and pomodori pachino. He added dashes of herbs and seasonings too quickly for Jack to catch. Jack sat back a moment, admired the sight and thought that might have been a good painting as well. Man in Kitchen. No, that was a stupid title to give a painting. It was too simple, it didn’t captivate what this really was. The monotonous beauty of everyday life was rarely captured in his opinion. Spoonfuls of the salad he made were spooned into ramekins. 

“We don’t do traditional four courses,” Brock said without turning.

“That’s perfectly fine.” 

“So if you were looking authentic Italian culture -- ”

“I got plenty of that in Rome and Turin.” 

“TJ,” Brock called. 

The boy appeared after a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you sneak any tomatoes on my sandwich?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Pinky swear?” 

Brock set the plates down and offered his pinky. Once they were hooked the storming in TJ’s eyes passed and he hopped up onto his chair. The table was perfect for three, the fourth side pressed against the wall to save space. Jack said with his back to the hallway and TJ was opposite of him so Brock would have to sit beside him. Jack hoped that wouldn’t make him uncomfortable. He was a stranger in the house, a fact he was well aware of, and any sane and rational person would be worried. 

TJ peeked into the bowl and made a cry of anguish. “You said you didn’t! You promised!” 

“I said I didn’t put them into your sandwich. Eat around them if you must.” 

TJ sniffled and picked up his fork beginning the slow process of removing each sliced tomato out of the white bowl. Brock didn’t pay it much mind turning to Jack. “Can I offer you something to drink? Sparkling water? WIne?” 

“Water would be excellent.” 

Brock fetched two green bottles of San Pellegrino and set them down before pouring a cup of juice for TJ. “I bet you snuck tomatoes into it,” TJ said.

“I promise I didn’t.” 

“I don’t trust your promises anymore today.” 

“I suppose that’s fair. Here.” 

TJ took the cup, eyed it from every angle, sniffed it twice and then took a hearty glug of it. Brock finally sat, stiff and closer to TJ than to Jack. But that was fine, expected even. It would take time to warm up to each other. TJ chomped on his sandwich and that was a cue for the adults to do the same. Conversation was sparse until TJ asked Brock if they could eat the pickled blueberry now. 

“Pickled blueberries?” 

“Uh-huh. They’re really yummy, aren’t they daddy? Aren’t they?” 

Brock swallowed, cleared his throat and looked at Jack. “They go well with goat cheese on crostinis. I serve them at the restaurant and they get very good reviews. If you’d like I can prepare some later in the week. They have to pickle properly.” 

It was the most Brock had said to him and Jack counted that as a win. “That would be wonderful, thank you. There’s nothing better than trying new things.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

Jack supposed he could get Brock to like him so long as he kept at it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock tries to adjust to Jack.

After lunch Jack left the house to look around the island a bit more. TJ begged and cried when Brock told him he couldn’t go. It wasn’t that he thought poorly of his boarder, it was the fact that you could never know a stranger’s intentions. He’d hardly sit still for literacy and Brock finally called the day a bust and took him down to collect seashells. He collected them in little jars along with sea glass and Brock would set them in them on the hostess counter to sell for two euros to tourists. It was a booming business, interestingly enough. He could make up to a hundred and fifty euros in a season. It was all tucked away of course, kept safe until he decided what he wanted. 

“Oh look at this one!” 

It was a small conch, blush red inside and a pale with splotchy gray on the outside. Brock wasn’t sure what attracted TJ to certain shells. They washed up in the tide and bordered the water and the white sand outside of it. 

“Very nice.” Brock said and it went into his blue pail.

He used to do with this with Grant. Walk the shore line with TJ and look on as he selected the worthy shells from the offerings. On warm days they’d roll their pants legs up and let the waves lick their ankles. Brock wondered when the happy memories would be just that -- happy -- rather than fill his chest up with sadness and loss. Soon, he hoped. It had been long enough, hadn’t it? 

“This one too,” TJ said, picking up the little snail shell with a curious blue swirl to it. “It’s a good one, right?” 

“Right,” Brock agreed. 

The afternoon crept closer to evening and Brock began to get a little worried. He didn’t know this boarder well and the idea of him being alone in the house made him more than a little uncomfortable. Brock hated to rush TJ -- it took a bit longer than most children to do this -- but he couldn’t stand the idea of Jack rustling through his things. Or TJ’s. Or Grant’s. 

“I think it's a good time for a Becurin, what do you say?” 

TJ looked up from the clamshell immediately. “Becurin? Yes! Yay!” 

Brock was pracatically dragged off the beach by TJ who was clearly excited. It was his favorite ‘big boy’ drink because it had espresso. Honestly it had one-fortieth of the caffeine a cup of coffee had, it was just stronger in flavor. He didn’t expect to see Jack outside. He’d taken the chair from his room and Brock wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He had his easel out and was sketching on it. TJ plowed ahead before Brock could stop him. 

“Jack! Hey! Hey Jack.” 

He turned and smiled at TJ despite the interruption. “Hello there TJ.” 

“Are you drawing?” he leaned over to peer at it. 

“I was, yes. I see you have some shells.” 

“It’s my job, y’know. I put ‘em in bottles and people buy then I get money. Real euros that daddy puts away nice and safe for when I gotta buy something.” 

Jack looked at Brock who nodded. “That’s right.” 

“Are you drawing our house?” 

“I am.” 

“Why?” 

“I think it’s very nice and I’d like to paint it.” 

“Will you paint me?” 

“TJ.” 

“If you’d like I could give it a go.” 

“Daddy he said he’ll paint me. Won’t that be so neat? I’d be a painting daddy.” 

Brock sucked in his cheeks. Jack was friend and agreeable but Brock wasn’t sure where obligation met true interest. There was something inherently difficult about saying no to TJ. Even Brock had difficulties with it. It wasn’t hard to see that Jack was trying to appeal toward Brock, to make things less tense and more comfortable and Brock took that blame onto himself completely. But even if his arrival was unexpected, he didn’t want him distracted by TJ. 

“Jack is busy, TJ. Let’s get your drink.” Brock paused and then turned to the man who had gone back to sketching. He didn’t want to interrupt but he did want to at least try to be a good host. “Could I interest you in a bicerin?” 

Jack looked up at him, green eyes bright with surprise. “That’s very kind of you. If it’s no trouble I certainly wouldn’t refuse. I tried one in Turin -- I believe that’s where they originate from, don’t quote me on that but I think I read in a brochure.” 

Jack was a bit more talkative than expected. It would take some getting used to. “I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

TJ was at the table and Brock reminded him to wash his hands and to set the pail aside for Brock to clean the shells. Bicerin was from Turin, Jack was correct about that. It was a commonly ordered drink at the restaurant. Brock started the hot chocolate first: a glass bowl of a semisweet chocolate bits in heavy cream sitting on top of of a pot of water. Brock watched it, paused every now and then to hear a bump or scape of movement upstairs where TJ had fled to awaiting his favorite drink. The chocolate melted, thickening the mixture until Brock added more heavy cream. Bit by bit he worked the texture down into hot chocolate. There were certainly easier ways to make hot chocolate but the other ways didn’t yield the same results. His hot chocolate was thick and velvety. It was rich but not toothrottingly sweet. Grant loved it. In his last months he requested it almost every day. Maybe that was why Brock offered this drink so sparingly -- that and the sugar, that is -- but he wasn’t one for speculations. 

Above him TJ hollered, “abandon ship” and Brock smiled. 

He used the stovetop espresso maker and poured whipping cream into the bowl. He got busy whisking, mind drifting back to those days of walking in the tide with TJ, hand in hand. Perfect harmony, taking in the beauty around them. The beauty was still there but without Grant it was like he was looking at it with muted colors, black and white, high contrast. It wasn’t the same. The whipping cream stood up in peaks and he set it aside. 

Brock poured the espresso first, then using the spoon trick to separate the layers, added the hot chocolate and then the whipped cream. Brock stared at them, at two glasses. Brock wasn’t one for a lot of sweets so when Grant was still with them it had always just been two cups. It hadn’t been two cups for a long time now. Brock wasn’t sure why that hit him so hard but it did. Part of him wanted to pour one out but he didn’t. He placed them on the table with a spoon so the layers could be blended together. Brock called for TJ and opened the front door. Jack was still there, drawing away. 

“It’s ready,” he called. 

“Great! I’ll be right in.” 

TJ was in the kitchen when Brock turned around. He was stooped down eyeing the drinks trying to figure out which glass more in it. “They’re the same.” 

“I know that.” TJ studied them closely and chose the one on the left. “Is Jack coming too?” 

“He said he was.” 

“Okay.” 

He didn’t touch it, clearly waiting for the boarder to join him. Jack left all of his things outside and came. “Wow, that’s cafe quality,” Jack said. “One of the nicest bicerins I’ve had the honor of trying.” 

Brock wasn’t one to be won over by flattery but Jack was making it hard not to feel a little bit of pride. “They’re offered at the restaurant too. I don’t usually make them myself but I taught the waitstaff.” 

“Beautiful,” Jack said, taking his seat. “It’s a small travesty to mix it together.” 

A small travesty. He never would understand the artsy types, but, maybe, he could accept their compliments. Jack picked his spoon and stirred the drink together. TJ ate the whip cream. “May I ask about your restaurant?” 

“I don’t see why not. Though the answers might bore you. It’s a seasonal place, catering towards the tourists who came from here for the Rock Cathedral and the Cava Mazzella. You should visit them too, if you haven’t already. Maybe you could...paint them.” 

“Do you have tours?” 

“Not currently but I… We have a boat. TJ likes to visit it occasionally to see the night birds.” 

“Night birds?” 

“Storm petrels. They nest in the caves.” 

“I would love to be able to see that.” 

“The birds like me,” TJ contributed. “They don’t like to be touched -- daddy says they have very sensitive feathers -- so I just watch them and they like to be watched. They’re not even scared of me or my orange life vest.” 

Jack nodded along, sharing his awe. He was good with TJ, Brock finally had to admit. He wasn’t like most children and could easily be interpreted as invasive but Jack knew better and Brock appreciated that. Jack took a drink, closed his eyes, and thanked Brock once more. He nodded and went to the fridge to get out the pork belly. He felt eyes following him and Brock tried to strike up a conversation. “So you’re really painting the house?” 

“I paint several things. I’ll finish your home and then go inland to get another canvas or two and start on something else.” 

“Do you typically paint buildings?” Brock asked, scoring the fat. 

“Sometimes I do. It depends on if it has something remarkable about it. If it does, I paint it. If not, I just appreciate it as it is. Have you been a chef long?” 

“I started cooking when I was young. I’d come to Italy to visit my grandmother and she taught me how to cook. It just stuck.” 

“You’re quite talented.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t cooked for you yet.” 

“Perhaps but that sandwich you made was exquisite.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Today I went and picked berries for our dinner.” TJ told him. “It’s going in the stuffing, right?” 

“That’s right.” 

“What kind of berries?” 

“Juniper berries!” 

“Aren’t those...poisonous?” 

“There are strains of juniper trees that have poisonous berries but not here.” Brock glanced over his shoulder as he set the knife aside. “We’re not out to kill you.” 

“That’s good to know,” Jack said.

Brock was in good humor, his trepidations on having Jack here had been soothed, at least for the time being. He pat the scored surface dry while TJ peppered Jack with questions about America. “I was born there, you know. And then me and daddy and papa moved here to Italy! And so I grew up here in Italy but I was American just like you.” 

Brock stiffened at the mention. He could never be certain what TJ would say next but he seemed too interested in asking about how things were in the States since he ‘was away’ (thought he had no memories of being there). But TJ seemed to plow right past it and Jack, thankfully, didn’t inquire. Brock wasn’t sure how he would respond now he was thinking about it. Surely the question would be raised in the not so distant future and he should have a response for it. He’d be straightforward; blunt. Social standards made it impossible to carry on. A communication precedent that once someone shared a loved one was dead, you didn’t keep talking about and made a point to avoid it later. Brock just had to stay on guard. Be prepared. 

He finished patting down the slab of meat and sprinkled on fennel seeds, thyme, salt and pepper. He frowned at it and added garlic and coriander. He patted brown sugar and a bit of clove as well before and put it into the oven to roast. Brock busied himself cleaning the counters and washing his hands. He scoured the sink afterwards, just to keep working on something. It was easy to talk to Jack. Too easy. He wasn’t ready to explain why he was in this big house alone. It wasn’t just the fact that Grant was dead, it was the fact he had been in a relationship with a man. That he’d even raised a child, two things that society didn’t take kindly towards. Maybe artists were different; he didn’t seem outwardly outraged or bothered. He just nodded and listened to TJ rehash his early morning activities complete with Brock not being happy about it. The conversation flowed back to the pickled blueberries and Brock finally felt confident in facing Jack. 

His drink was depleted but he still entertained TJ’s yammering. “TJ,” Brock said to draw his attention. “Your drink is going to get cold.” 

TJ went back to drink and Jack seized the freedom. “Thank you again,” Jack said as Brock took his glass. 

“You’re welcome.” 

When he left the house a weight Brock didn’t know he was carrying slipped off like a lead vest. He took a deep breath and TJ looked up with an espresso and chocolate milk mustache. “Aw, Jack had to go draw again?” 

“He did.” Brock wet the edge of a kitchen towel under the tap and wiped his lip free. “Why don’t we do some crafts of our own?” 

“Sewing the llamas?” 

“I think that’s a good idea.” 

Brock had stumbled upon a craft book when he was shopping last year. A thick, gloss hardcover book posting 1,000 different crafts with a smiling mother and child. He had been getting tired of pipe cleaners and sick of paper mache cleanup. So he shelled out the sixteen euros and it had paid for itself ten times over. Brock recycled old clothes into fabric that they cut to size according to the book’s dimension. They took stuffing from a flat pillow and Brock gave TJ and a needle and some thread, keeping a careful eye over him as he carefully, sewed the outer edge. There had been several animal options: a bear, a dog, a cat, a horse, a cow and a llama. Brock had done all but a cow while he was sat with TJ working on his llama. Brock never thought he’d like sewing. Hemming Grant’s pants had been a headache. But he didn’t mind it so much now. The tip of TJ’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he carefully sewed. He’d poked his fingers a bit at first and he was increasingly careful so it wouldn’t happen again. 

Brock’s mind wandered as he sewed. It would be the very first time he’d had a stranger under this roof. He didn’t expect to get any sleep at all; he would be on guard, prepared in case anything happened. He wasn’t worried about getting robbed blind -- he didn’t have much cash on hand, maybe a hundred or so euros in a coffee tin with the cleaning supplies. He paid primarily with his checkbook which was in the nightstand drawer because TJ had filled up his last ones with pretend checks when Brock was bringing the clothes in due to a flash storm. TJ had apologized but the checkbook found a new home. 

“Ouch!” 

“Gotta be careful, Teej. Do you need a bandaid?” 

TJ looked at it with watery eyes. He wiped away his tears. “No.” 

“Okay.” 

The smell of roasting pork belly filled the air and Brock checked the time before setting his second llama. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay.” TJ said shortly, still absorbed in his stitching. 

Brock reduced the heat after checking to ensure the fat had rendered. He started the stuffing since he was already in the kitchen and could see TJ kneeling over the coffee table. He took the ciabatta rolls he’d picked up last week that were dried and diced them. Brock turned his attention on ingredients needed for the stuffing. He would have been more simplistic had it been just TJ and him -- after all the whole purpose of the meal was to incorporate the berries he’d picked. But now he felt a certain level of obligation on his meal standards. He was getting paid for this after all. Brock sliced a red onion, diced up two apples, chopped a small handful of walnuts and chives, crushed a handful of juniper berries, and a sprig of destemmed thyme and rosemary. He put a pan on the stove and started to cook down the onions, checking on TJ. He was still laser focused so Brock turned his attention back to the pan. When the onions were turning transparent he added the apple cooked them down until the apples were just starting to get soft. He added them into a pan with the cubed ciabatta and added in the rest of the ingredients before got out the apple juice. TJ heard the fridge and recognized the bottle. 

“Can I have some juice?” 

“Sure. Make sure your needle is on the table please.” 

“It is. I don’t wanna step on it.” 

“Me neither.” 

Brock poured a small cup for TJ before he added it to the dish to moisten the bread. He melded it together with his hands and washed his hands under the tap. It wouldn’t go in the oven yet so he put aluminum foil over it. It would give the mix time to soak in flavors, rehydrating the bread with juice infused by all the aromatic ingredients. TJ dawdled over his drink, asking about Jack. 

“TJ,” Brock said, sitting beside him. “I know it’s exciting to have someone new here. But he’s here to work.” 

“He’s doing art!” 

“Yes and art is his work. It’s like when you’re at the restaurant and daddy is working, right?” 

TJ’s smile fell. “I’m not ‘pose to interrupt him when he’s busy.” 

“Unless it’s an emergency,” Brock agreed. “I know it’s hard but I know you can do it.” 

“Well, can I show him my llama? When it’s done?” 

“When he’s not working, you can ask him if he’d like to see it.” 

“He will,” TJ said matter of fact. “It’s a llama.” 

Brock smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock has a bit of mishap. Jack doesn't seem to mind.

Jack was still outside when Brock took the belly out, placing a tent of foil over it so it didn’t lose any of its moisture. Brock fluffed up the stuffing and went down into a fruit cellar to find the sangiovese. He pulled it out of the wine rack and looked it over before climbing back up. Jack was at the table now listening with rapt attention as TJ told him about sewing his llama. Thankfully he didn’t bring up the conversation about leaving him when working. He had a feeling that Jack would insist it was okay but Brock knew damn well it wasn’t. Jack seemed like he was too nice and Brock wasn’t sure. Brock got busy carving the belly and dishing out stuffing. He served TJ and Jack, who immediately exclaimed how great it looked. Brock’s cheeks warmed a bit as he brushed it off, easing the cork out of the bottle and poured two glasses of wine. He set aside the bottle and got TJ a refill of apple juice -- watered down so he wouldn’t be up all night. 

Jack kept up a steady stream of praise throughout the meal. “Here I was thinking that Paris was the home of culinary excellence but apparently it’s here, in Italy.” 

“It’s not that good,” Brock mumbled. His cheeks were a bit reddened by three glasses of wine and the compliments. “It’s just… It’s just little things, I guess.” 

“I’m an awful cook. Take outs and diners for me back home.” 

“You must be a very good artist,” Brock said, tongue loose. “I mean, it’s expensive to travel the world.” 

“I came into money,” Jack said, too kind to even be offended by his incredibly personal question. “My gram died. In her will she said I had to follow my dream and travel the world and paint to get my full inheritance. She was always a strange woman.” 

“I’m sorry she’s dead.” It wasn’t tactful, not in the least and even he heard. “I’m so sorry -- ”

“No, no don’t apologize. I’m sorry she’s dead as well. And I’m sure where she is she’s not.” 

That was an interesting take on it. He hoped wherever Grant was he didn’t wish he was still alive. He hoped he was at peace, looking over and watching Brock act like an idiot when he got to drinking. He reached for the bottle and sloshed more into his cup. He could feel the pressure and nervousness about having a boarder in his home fading. In fact, it felt kind of nice to have another person here. Another adult. A handsome adult. He was handsome, with his slicked back hair, his curious scar that offered a rugged look expected from a laborer not an artist. He was well built too, but his fingers looked agile and talented. His green eyes were the color of sea moss and his lips looked soft. 

“The food is good,” Jack said, jerking him out of his fantasy. “You should try some.” 

He looked at his untouched plate. Oh. No wonder the wine had hit so hard. He was such an idiot. When it came to indulging he had a habit of overindulging -- that was what Grant always told him with a smile as he helped him into bed. He didn’t have Grant to take him to bed and get TJ into his either. He took a deep breath, smiled and cut into his food. It was good. He was a good chef and he knew it. 

“Can I have more stuffing?” 

“I can get it,” Jack volunteered. 

Brock would have argued but he had a point. He wasn’t sure if he was steady right now. Best sit where he was and let the worst of it pass. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Jack returned with more stuffing and a glass of water. “Forgive me,” Brock said, face bright red. “I… I don’t usually drink like this.” 

“Oh I’ve had my share of mishaps.” 

Mishaps. That was a swallowable name for this. It wasn’t too harsh, just a little mistake. Like it didn’t matter that Brock had gotten drunk in front of a stranger with his child in the home. Just a tiny mistake. He left the dishes for morning, something he never did, and put TJ to bed. If TJ recognized Brock wasn’t quite himself he didn’t show it. He was cheerful and hyper and dwindled while brushing his teeth in an attempt to coerce Brock into pushing bedtime back. Brock was beginning to get a bit of a headache but he kept his temper and patiently reminded him that he had to wake up early in the morning to work in the garden. One of TJ’s favorite pastimes was looking for worms in the soil so he was suddenly very agreeable. Brock tucked him in and left his door cracked. Out the window at the end of the hall he could see Jack out there, still sketching away in the rapidly fading light. He was already feeling the heat of embarrassment flickering to life in his gut and it was hard to squash down. He left the kitchen and hall light on for Jack and took a long hot shower before he went to his own bed, a book in hand. He intended to stay awake, to make sure nothing happened overnight, but he woke up in the morning with a nasty headache and a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The bed was bouncing sickeningly and Brock looked over at TJ tiredly. He was still in his train two piece pajamas, smile wide and typically infectious but Brock wasn’t in the mood to smile right now. “Hi, hi TJ.” 

He pulled himself up in a somewhat upright position. His head throbbed something nasty and TJ hopped off the bed. “Can we make syrup today?” 

Brock muttered something that wasn’t a refusal or acceptance and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. It woke him up a bit and Brock knew he needed a tall glass of water and more than a few painkillers. He needed to make breakfast for his boarder too, he realized abruptly. He looked at the clock and cringed. It was almost nine. He got dressed and tried to make himself look a bit presentable, especially after the embarrassing performance last night. He hurried down the steps and his gut dropped as he saw Jack sitting there. 

“I’m so sorry.” It was a blanket apology -- he was sorry for last night and this morning. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not upset. I was up early watching the sun rise. Little TJ here joined me.” 

“It was really pretty daddy. Just like when we watched on the boat with papa.” 

Brock glanced to Jack but his serene smile hadn’t shifted in the slightest. “That sounds like fun. I hope it wasn’t too much of an interruption.” 

“Not at all. We had a good time, I believe. I certainly did. TJ knows a lot of colors.” 

“I do,” TJ said with a nod. “I knowed all the colors, didn’t I?” 

“You certainly did.” 

Jack was good with TJ and Brock was beginning to think he could take a step back from his fear of TJ bothering Jack and Jack hurting TJ. He was starting to think that Jack was as genuine as he came across as. And that… Well, that made it a little bit easier on Brock. It still had only been a day, Brock couldn’t lend him his full trust, not so soon. But he could see himself doing so in the future. He pulled the water pitcher from the fridge and poured himself a glass of it. The water helped hydrate him some, taking the edge off his headache. He grabbed a bottle of aspirin from the pill basket kept well out of TJ’s reach. He shook three into his palm, poured another glass and washed them down his throat. Then he turned to breakfast. 

“How do you feel about a traditional Italian breakfast?” Brock asked with a nervous chuckle. “If not I can -- ”

“No, no. This is Italy after all. I would love it.” 

“Espresso or cappuccino?” 

“Cappuccino if it’s not a bother.” 

“I want one!” TJ cheered. 

“How about milk?” 

“Okay, I’ll have that.” 

Brock got the perculator on the stove and dug out the frother. He went to the cupboards to see what pastries he had. There were slim pickings: three cornetti ripieni filled with jam and one with cheese, and five saccottino al cioccolato. Brock told Jack the options and he selected the saccottino al cioccalto. “I think I actually prefer these to pain au chocolat.” 

“Really?” 

“I think they’re better in the States.” 

Brock laughed. “There was a cafe that we -- ” Brock stopped himself, swallowed and corrected, “That I would go to that had really great pain au chocolat. Made fresh in house every day. It was owned by the sweetest girl. I miss it, actually. If I ever visit the States again I’ll definitely go back.” 

“It sounds like a place I would love to check out, especially coming as a recommendation from a chef such as yourself. I’ll have to get that name before I leave.” 

Jack hadn’t mentioned the correction, hadn’t even batted an eye. He was either very polite and very dim. Brock was thinking it was the former and that didn’t really make him feel any better. He poured Jack’s espresso and added the frothed milk. Once Jack was served he turned his attention to TJ who, as expected, wanted the same exact thing Jack had selected. He passed him the pastry and cup of milk. He nibbled on a jam filled cornetti ripieni. He’d have to shop soon. That would involve leaving Jack alone in his home, free to pick through whatever he wanted. Brock didn’t have a choice however, he hadn’t planned on feeding another adult and they were going through more food than expected. The pork belly would have fed them for two or three days in various dishes. Here was only a small portion left over. For a thin guy he sure could pack away food. It was a compliment really and Brock was flattered he liked his food as much as he did, but it was hurting his grocery supplies already. 

Not today though. He had to work in the garden and use the rest of the juniper berries before they went bad. After some consideration he decided on making an espresso for himself, using the rest of the frothed milk to turn it into a cappuccino and watched over TJ. Breakfast was quiet but quick, pastries polished off and cup drained. Jack thanked him with a wide smile and started upstairs. TJ tried to follow. 

“Ah-ah-ah, mister. I need your help.” 

“What if Jack needs my help?” 

“You’d help Jack over your daddy?” Brock asked with an animated expression of hurt. 

“No! I want to help you.” TJ hugged him. “What are we doing today?” 

“We’re going out to harvest some veggies from the garden and then we’re going to make some syrup.” 

“Yummy, yummy, yummy.” 

“But first you need to get dressed.” 

TJ looked down at his pajamas and then ran towards the stairs. Brook stood at the base of the staircase and listened to TJ tell Jack, “I know I have to help my daddy today but maybe later I can visit you, okay?” 

“That sounds like a good plan. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful help.” 

“I help daddy a lot,” TJ agreed. “I have to go get dressed.” 

“I hope you have a good day helping him.” Jack said and Brock heard the pitter patter of little feet running above him to his room. 

Brock cleaned up and did the dishes he’d neglected the night before. He was drying his hand when TJ appeared wearing his safari hat with his bug kit hanging over his shoulder and an expression of seriousness on his face. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

Working in the garden helped his hangover. Pulling carrots, picking arugula, eggplants, celeriac, cucurbits, garlic, mint, swiss chard, and tomatoes. It was a small garden but it yielded enough for them. TJ’s bug research was well underway though he kept getting spooked by the wall lizards that had hid among the vegetables. The brightly colored reptiles were fast but harmless to anything but bugs which, understandably, put a hitch in TJ’s investigative work. 

“These lizards are eating all my bugs!” TJ cried angrily.

“They’re hungry, just like you and me.” 

“But there’s bugs everywhere,” TJ said tearfully. “I worked hard on turning up the soil.” 

“I know buddy. It stinks when you do all that work and have nothing to show for it. But at least you saw the bugs, right?” 

TJ wiped his tears away and left a smudge of soil on his cheek. “I think I’m about ready to head in. How about you?” 

TJ nodded getting to his feet. He brushed dirt from his knees as Brock did the same and they started inside, one hand carrying the wicker basket and the other holding TJ’s hand. Jack was nowhere to be seen and he wasn’t inside either. TJ went upstairs to put away his bug tools and Brock washed the vegetables. He had decided on gnocchi. Traditionally lunch was the most important meal in Italy and his sandwich hadn’t really done it justice. Of course he hadn’t promised Jack traditional cuisine. The only time he cooked strictly Italian dishes was at the restaurant and even then there were familiar American dishes on the menu. But after a shoddy breakfast he felt he owed him. 

It was just nearing ten thirty so he had plenty of time for the gnocchi. The last thing he wanted was to serve it cold. So he turned his attention to the house. He vacuumed and dusted, cleaned both bathrooms and made his bed and oversaw TJ making his and picking up the toys so they could get out his work book. They worked until noon and then Brock got busy with boiling the russet potatoes and waited until they were fork tender. The skin peeled away from the potato with ease and Brock got to mashing them, adding dashes of salt and pepper. He rolled out the dough and cut into it small pieces he rolled over the back of a fork. He worked on the sauce while he prepared the fresh herbs sauce which consisted of little more than olive oil, garlic, oregano, basil, pasley, seasoning and parmesan cheese. There was something calming about, practiced motions that allowed his mind to wander. He thought about what Grant would have thought about him taking in a boarder as he boiled the gnocchi. He wondered what Jack was doing as he added the gnocchi to saute in the herb sauce. Brock hoped Grant would have approved. He thought that he would have; he always wanted to help those in need.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack learns the danger of thieving lizards and has some personal time.

The Tyrrhenian sea was a sight Jack thought he’d never tire of looking at. Palmarola was shaped like a sleeping bunny, and severely underrated. It was why he chose it. A stroll off the beaten path had landed him here on a stunningly beautiful island surrounded by clear turquoise water. Jack wanted to capture all of it, the sweeping cliffs, the jagged rocks, blue grottos, crumbled rock formations. The beach fronts varied, some covered with tiny colorful pebbles, others had soft white sand colored with pink coral dust washed in with the tide. The rocks on the island had a purple hue to them that Jack wasn’t certain he could properly replicate. 

These were times he wished he had a passion for photography. 

There were cliffs veined with obsidian and the land splattered with dwarf palm trees -- hence the island’s name. There was a very limited number of people who lived on the island full time, a small apartment building hosted a young man and a small family. There was a small market place with a few stalls up that were abandoned now that tourist season had passed. Jack preferred to be there now. He didn’t like to be around a lot of people, he’d had enough of that in Rome, Turin, Venice, and Foggia. They had their share of beauty of course, and part of that was activity within them. But Jack gladly traded the blur of human activity to being surrounded by ocean air and peace. He looked down as he felt something brush his hand. 

A lizard froze and looked at him. It was green with little black dots running down its sides. “Why hello there.” 

The lizard ran away with incredible speed. Jack returned to his thoughts. This island was beautiful with its rocky coast and craggy land. It added significant character. And character was what made things stand out. Jack's stomach reminded him it was about lunch and he got up and started towards the house. Jack thought he was winning Brock over, bit by bit. He’d been startled by him getting drunk but he’d been around plenty of people with a drinking problem, Brock didn’t seem the type. Besides he wasn’t one to judge. 

The house smelled of herbs and Jack’s mouth watered immediately. Brock was there, sober, and offered a smile he thought was genuine. TJ immediately launched into a discussion about what he’d found and when he mentioned the lizards Jack contributed one had visited him. TJ informed him that the lizards were in fact thieves and very scary. Jack promised to be on the lookout for any future thieves visiting him. Assured that Jack was in the know he requested a cup of juice from his father who was at the stove. Brock did so immediately and asked Jack what he’d like. 

“Water will be fine for me, thank you.” 

Brock served it to him and went back to the stove. “What did you do today?” TJ asked. 

“TJ,” Brock began. 

“Oh, it’s okay. I was looking around the island.” 

“Was it fun?” 

“I thought so.” 

“Did you see anything cool? There’s a gelato cart in summer time but they’re not open right now.” 

“Well, besides the thieving lizards, I looked at some of the trees and the landscape.” 

“That sounds boring.” 

“TJ,” Brock said sternly. 

“I suppose I like boring things.” 

TJ hummed and looked at his father. “Is lunch ready? I’m real hungry, you know.” 

“I do know, you just told me five minutes ago.” 

Jack’s mind wandered back to the ocean, to the small fish swimming around the shore line, at the cliffs that were an array of colors, green, red, pink, brown, white, yellow and purple and they glittered with minerals and crystals. He was eager to explore the inlets and caves though he wasn’t sure how to suggest the visit to Brock quite yet. He wanted to be on a more friendly basis with him first. That was to ensure the trip itself wasn’t a bother to Brock. Or uncomfortable. 

Brock placed a dish in front of him, gnocchi in a sauce speckled with herbs and a slice of toasted and buttered homemade bread. “It’s a cheese and herb sauce,” Brock explained. 

Jack didn’t care what it was called. It looked incredible. “It’s beautiful.” 

Brock quirked a smile. “You think a lot of things are beautiful.” 

“There’s beauty in everything. In me, in you…” Jack trailed off before realizing what he said. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Brock’s cheeks looked a bit red. 

“Daddy,” TJ whined, saving them both from the moment. “I’m so hungry I’m going to die.” 

“Are you now?” 

TJ flopped onto the table and sniffled. “Don’t cry, TJ. It’s right here.” 

“How come Jack gets to eat first?” 

“Because he’s the guest.” 

“Well I wish I was a guest.” 

“If you’re so hungry why aren’t you eating?” 

TJ got busy eating and Brock sat down with his own food. Jack waited until he was seated to eat. The outside was crispy and the inside so soft it nearly melted on his tongue. It was so good he was halfway through before he remembered to tell Brock how incredible it was. “This is the best gnocchi I’ve had.” 

Brock’s cheeks colored again. “It’s very popular at the restaurant. I felt bad about this morning -- and, well last night -- so I wanted to make something special.” 

“You shouldn’t feel bad in the slightest. But this… Well, it’s incredible.” 

“Thank you.” 

Lunch was relatively quiet, TJ too busy eating to talk. Afterwards he took his easel and canvas down to the drive and started to mix his paints. TJ came out but Brock quickly shooed him back inside for lessons. It was strange how time passed when he was painting, slow and quickly all at once. In the moments where he sat back to assess his work thus far he noticed the sun’s movement. Daylight was fleeting and he was called in for a dinner of creamy lemon chicken pasta which was just as good as everything else his cook prepared. Once he was finished he returned to his painting. When twilight fell around him, he packed up things and went inside to where Brock was folding towels while the radio played. Music, Jack thought, was a wonderful thing. It varied so greatly from lively to gloomy, the croon of the singer's voice added layers to the tune. It had been a while since he listened to the radio, too caught up in trying to immortalize the sights before him. 

Brock smiled at him, hesitant and still a bit untrusting. “Did painting go well?” 

TJ whipped his head up pinpointing Jack. “I drew! Do you want to see?” 

“I would love to.” 

Jack wasn’t sure if it was abstract or not so he smiled and said, “That’s a very good piece of art.” 

“It’s for you. Daddy’s got loads of my pictures, right?” 

“I don’t have a lot,” Brock agreed. 

“Why thank you.” Jack took the piece of paper. 

He retired to his room, putting the picture away carefully. It was a memento from his journey and he would cherish it as he did everything else he got from this trip. He dug a dog eared copy of Around the World in 80 Days -- a severely underrated book in Jack’s opinion. He was absorbed until footsteps and soft voices passed his door. Once more Jack wondered about his host. Jack wasn’t stupid, he had caught onto every mention of ‘papa’. He wondered where Brock’s partner was. If it had been a separation or something more. Brock always went on guard when it happened, his eyes hardening, a steel gate slamming shut making him appear impenetrable. Jack didn’t ask, not only was it not his business but it felt inappropriate. Even if the curious was starting to pick at him in his free time. 

He tried to get back to his reading but he couldn’t so he decided a bath was in order. He had bars of soap he’d taken with him when he left from Paris. It smelled incredible and lathered up perfectly. He took his night clothes and the bar of soap from his luggage and started down the steps. He sat on the closed toilet lid while he watched the hot water streaming into the claw footed tub. It was roomier than the inns he’d stayed at. Jack ran his hand under the tap to ensure the water wasn’t too hot. Satisfied with the temperature he sat back and watched. Once it was at the proper level he undressed and slid into the hot water. His muscles relaxed and that lazy sense of serenity filled him. He wondered what it was about tubs that relaxed him so much. The hot water? The knowledge that he was free to actually relax? 

He closed his eyes, just feeling. His skin began to feel sensitive and his penis stirred from where it rested between his thighs. Jack cracked open an eye and moved his arm from resting on the lip of the tub to sit on his thigh, giving it a lazy tug. It thickened in his hand and Jack was struck by how long it’d been since he had a release. Tonight felt good as ever so he took the bar of soap in hand. It was scented with the fresh floral touch of rose petals and the sweet smell of creme. It was sweeter than he would typically use but when in Paris… 

He slipped the pink and white speckled bar below the water line and ran it over his hardening dick, exhaling heavily at the sensation. He tipped his head back, the steam clinging to the air delicately. It made it feel ethereal, his pleasure radiating through him and the haziness in the air complimenting each other. The lather Jack appreciated so much was thick and soft like he was in the silky channels of a partner. His next exhale was deeper but his moan was soft. He began to lend his hips into the motion, the bath water shifted with him. He was careful not to have the water spill over the edges but it got close a few times as his toes began to curl. His eyes were slits when he saw something move in the corner of his eyes. He froze, looking over but there was nothing. His pace increased again, a bit of water sloshing over the edge as he climbed up to the peak of his orgasm. He closed his eyes, picturing the young man he’d had a short affair with in Germany. But when he turned his head back, it wasn’t his face that he saw. 

It was Brock’s. 

That tipped him over the edge he came with a few huffed breathes, stroking slowly until he grew too sensitive. As the euphoria started to fade, his eyes were left even heavier than they had been previously. He made quick work of cleaning up and took a towel from the rack. The soap returned to the container and he slipped into his sleeping clothes. The kitchen light was still on for him but Brock was clearly already in bed by the deserted downstairs. He shut the lights off and found his way back to his room. As he laid in bed he rested easy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock deals with the fallout from something he wasn't meant to see.

Brock laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind going a mile a minute. He wasn’t sure why he’d opened the door. He should have knocked and spoken through the door. It was just muscle instinct from when TJ was in the bathtub. But all reasoning aside he’d seen something he couldn’t forget. Something that deep down he didn’t want to forget and that terrified him. It felt like he had cheated which was impossible seeing as his partner was dead. But… Grief didn’t obey reason. Jack was a handsome man, that was the sole cause. It had been a long time since Brock had been with someone. Masturbation was a rarity for him, chronically low libidio had reamined since Grant was too sick for such things. 

So why was his cock so hard? It was almost aching. He’d seek release every few months but it felt more like a chore than anything else. It just reminded him of how alone he was. That this was his present and future. But now he had a fluttery feeling in his gut and his erection was begging for attention. His body strung tight in preparation for something his brain was still so unsure about. It wasn’t just the guilt of Grant -- he had witnessed something incredibly personal and he’d stayed a second to watch before common sense came back to him. He had no right to spy on his boarder and he felt awful about it. But there was also something sinfully thrilling about knowing he’d seen the painter obeying such base desires. 

When he blinked he saw Jack in the bathtub, heading tilted backwards. The profile of his face and his long neck bleeding into his a prominent chest. One arm had been propped on the edge of the tub, arms thick despite an artist. He had the build of a laborer. 

He had the build that Brock wanted to feel it with his own hands. And that terrified him. 

His erection was nagging him and he finally gave up and indulged in his sinful desires. A shudder wracked him as he took it in hand with a lotion slickened hand. Brock flicked his wrist, long strokes bouncing from slow to impatient as he fought himself mentally, as he wallowed in his guilt. 

“Fuck,” Brock hissed as his orgasm caught him guard. He thrust into his fist a few times to milk out the last of his cum before he reached for a napkin and cleaned up the mess left. 

And, exactly as expected, the guilt hit him like a mactruck sending him spiraling into tears. It had been a long time since he cried. Brock felt like it would never end; that his fear of betraying and defiling Grant and his relationship would never allow him to move on. He did want to move on even though it was difficult. But he didn’t think it would be a stranger. It wasn’t supposed to be Jack that made him feel this way. He rolled over, pulled the covers over his shoulder as he stared at the spot that Grant used to lie. 

“I’m sorry.” Brock whispered. 

Brock worried about facing Jack in the morning, wondering if his guilt would force him to apologize. He really hoped not; the last thing he needed was for Jack to proclaim him a pervert. There were enough people on the island who thought he was ‘odd’. He wouldn’t say anything, Brock decided. It wouldn’t happen again and that was more productive than confessing what he’d done. So he focused on what he needed to do tomorrow. What he’d make for breakfast. About what lessons he’d teach TJ and making juniper syrup. That would consume his time. Plus canning. That had to be done as well. 

He closed his eyes running recipes through his head. But Jack still visited his dreams with rough kisses and soft touches. In those dreams Brock raked his nails down his broad chest as he rode him wild and hard. It was primal and raw emotion. Brock woke up and the fleeting memory settled a weight on his chest. He was in trouble. He got up and took a cold shower and scrubbed his skin near raw in a desperate hope that he could wash away the traces of Jack. As it turned out it was more difficult than that. Brock couldn’t even bother being surprised. He had no idea how he was meant to survive a whole month sharing a roof with the man. 

In the kitchen he worked his anxiety out by making peach syrup and pancakes. As the smell of warm peaches filled the air TJ was quick to come down. His hair was a mess but Brock would take care of that after breakfast. He knew that Jack would be down soon and he still had no idea how to face him. He added allspice, lemon, water and sugar to the reduced peach mixture and heard footsteps on the stairs and sucked in a deep breath. Jack emerged with a warm smile. 

Brock tried to copy to it. He wasn’t certain if it landed or not because TJ claimed his attention by telling him what Brock was making and assuring him that it was really, really yummy. 

“I’d believe it. I think everything you dad makes it delicious.” 

“He’s a chef,” TJ reminded him. “He’s gotta cook good for that.” 

Brock wondered if he’d still think his food was good if he knew that he had masturbated to him last night. Brock whisked the batter more aggressively. Breakfast was a bit quieter than normal because Brock had no idea what to say and didn’t fully trust himself not to admit what he’d done. TJ filled the silence however reminding him to watch out for the lizards which Jack assured him he would. Jack was good with TJ and maybe that was part of the strange and sudden attraction. It was an attraction Brock had realized that made things so much worse. It had been a long time since he was in a position where he was attracted to anyone but he remembered it from life before Grant. The way one person found their way into your life, wedged themselves in your heart and mind. It was impossible to dislodge them, not without the pain of knowing the feelings weren’t mutual. And Brock knew the feelings absolutely were not. The chances of finding another gay man on Palmarola were so low it was virtually impossible. And for his boarder to be one? Even lower. So now Brock was attracted to a most likely straight man and that risked even more than heartbreak. It was best he kept his mouth shut and muscle through the month. Then, when he was gone, that painful loss would plague him but he would survive it. That was all that he could bet on after all. 

After breakfast Jack went back to getting his painting and Brock felt a weight life from his shoulders. The pressure was going to get old quickly so he needed to figure out a better way of coping. When TJ tried to follow Brock pulled him back by mentioning juniper berry syrups. 

“Two syrups in one day?” TJ cried. “Yay!”

“Pull up a chair, mister.” 

He let TJ grind up the berries in the mortar and pestle while he peered out at Jack from the window. “Done!” 

Brock looked at the purpley-blue mush and smiled. “Good job.” 

He separated the skins through a sieve while he let TJ grind up the fennel and coriander seeds and cardamom pods. Brock juiced a lime and got everything in the pot that he overlooked as he cleaned up from breakfast and got TJ situated with his art book. “Can we work on llamas later?” 

“Sure.” 

Brock’s gaze kept wandering Jack even though he told himself not to. It was starting to feel like a losing battle and it was only the third day of his stay. It was on his sixteenth day that he approached Brock after breakfast. He expected it to be a confrontation, to tell that he knew exactly why he was so weird. “Do you think we could schedule a time to see the grottos and Cathedral?” 

Brock had completely forgotten he’d offered. “I have to go inland today but… I suppose we could go tomorrow. As long as the weather holds out.” 

Jack smiled. He had a very nice smile with strong white teeth. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. Brock liked his smile. He felt a smile of his spreading on his face and he was powerless to stop it. “Say, while you’re in Latina do you mind picking up a canvas? There’s a shop there. I’ll certainly pay you for your time.” 

“You don’t need to do that. Just the cost of the canvas itself is plenty.” 

Jack frowned. “I insist.” 

“And I insistently refuse. Is there something special you’d like to have for dinner?” 

Jack’s frown persisted. “Oh no, I’m fine with whatever.” 

“Pizza!” TJ said. “You gotta say pizza.” 

Jack’s smile came back. “How about pizza?” 

“I think we can do pizza.” 

Brock parked his Fiat by the pier and Ciro took them across. He was a grumpy older man but he still produced pillow mints for TJ and never snapped at him for asking about his journeys. Brock suspected he liked to relive the old old days when his time on the water was more exciting than leading boat tours in the summer. Palmarola attracted certain kinds of people and Ciro wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t a land dweller, he stood on sea legs. Latina was a busy city year round. And today was no different. TJ thrived on the energy though he didn’t leave Brock’s shadow. He was all smiles, vibrating with excitement and that made Brock happy. It was a good distraction from the problems at home. Even if it was temporary. 

The art store smelled of paint and clay. A helpful young woman helped him find the canvas requested and Brock managed not to flinch at the cost. He paid with the bill Jack had given him. He’d paid his first week as well, thirty dollars a day which Brock felt was too much. It had been a while since he had so much money on the off seasons. He always saved for the off season but it was impossible to predict everything. The extra money helped with groceries for sure. Brock picked up things for a more traditional American meal. He thought Jack would appreciate it. He’d been doing a lot of things lately that he thought Jack would appreciate. And he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. TJ always got cold as autumn faded to winter so he bought a tin of green tea and a jar of honey. Then they were back on Ciro’s boat, the captain stowing away the bottle of grappa away for later that Brock had picked up for him. He was in a cheery mood during the trip, entertaining all of the exciting things TJ had seen -- plus a run down of what Brock had selected. 

“How’s that boarder?” 

“Oh,” Brock said, startled. “He’s fine.” 

Ciro grunted, apparently satisfied, and started to tell embellished stories about the fish he’d caught before. TJ listened with silent awe. They landed and Brock gathered all the groceries into the back of the car and TJ waved goodbye before Brock buckled him up. Jack was nowhere to be seen, off painting on the lower side of the island. He’d asked for a sandwich to go and Brock had gladly done so as he’d been considering it. He put away the groceries, TJ reading to him from the worksheet. Brock glanced at the time and started on the dough. He wondered where Jack was as he added sugar and yeast to the water. From there it was a domino effect of where Jack was, what was he thinking about, did he know that Brock was harboring feelings that he had no business feeling? Would he leave if he knew? Did he already know? Was it even remotely possible he felt the same? 

Brock sprinkled flour on the counter and began to knead the dough, distracted and conflicted. Plus their journey to the cathedral and the grottos were going to be a test of epic proportions. There was no way to prepare, he would just have to take it as it came.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack visits the Rock Cathedral

Brock warming up to him couldn’t have come at a worse time. Whenever he sought release he was picturing Brock. His chestnut eyes and his half smiles. The light in his eyes and the way he walked. How confident he was with his hands, how he commanded the kitchen. How he doted and took care of his son. And of course, how attractive he was. His proud quiff of hair, sun kissed olive skin and the toned lines he could see under his clothing. And he had a very shapely ass, muscular thighs and prominent hips. He was everything that Jack could ask for in a partner but he knew how wildly inappropriate it was. He’s a stranger, he was someone who had kindly let him stay in his home. Jack shouldn’t have been lusting after someone who was simply being friendly. 

But alas there was little one could do when it came to matters of the heart. It wanted what it wanted and Jack was simply a shell of it’s desires. And that put him in a compromising position. Part of him wanted to admit his desires, lay it all out and let the dice lay where they land but the idea of losing this man, losing the idea that he could have him as his own, was daunting. Being a distance could surely be enough, right? He frowned at the canvas and it’s lack of progress. He’d done so well with the house, his hand moving of its own across, a brush stroke here, blending there. But now he was looking at palmarolas with the striking purple and red jagged cliffs. A glorious contrast -- something so small, bright and alive situated beneath the shadow of something ancient and impenetrable. Jack didn’t know how long the rock had stood there but it had been there before he drew his first breath and would remain long after he exhaled his last. 

It was an image he desperately wanted to transfer to his canvas but he couldn’t because he wanted to paint Brock’s face. He wanted the perfect man to exist in every medium. He wanted people to know that Brock Rumlow, a man so very caring and talented, had been there. A fixture in the future. Maybe he was too ambitious but how couldn’t he not be when faced with the kind of perfection and beauty artists only dreamed of glimpsing in their lives. The beauty around him had begun to pale, age and crack. Because around Brock nothing else mattered. 

Jack was a man who loved quickly and fiercely; he sought passion. He followed his heart, a man who rationalized with emotion alone. It opened him up to pain, and he’d felt his fair share of it, but he didn’t harbor a single regret. The idea of what he could have missed out on would be what kept him up at night. The sting of rejection was recoverable, soothing the pain with knowing that he had done the best he could. But it was different now. It was different because it was Brock. Which brought his thoughts right back around to how special and incredible the man was. With a heavy heart he packed up his things, stowed his easel under his arm and picked his way down the island. He saw a few lizards, smiling fondly at the warning from young TJ. He was a special kind of a child, one who saw the world differently and Jack envied him for that. What he wouldn’t do to be able to see the world from his eyes. He saw beauty in the mundane, in things that even Jack missed. 

Jack hesitated outside of the house. The painting he’d done of it was one he felt was the best he’d ever done. Maybe that was because it was Brock’s home, the place that knew him most intimately. A place of joy and, Jack suspected, great sadness as well. But even with the sadness a warmth remained. The house had a soul of sorts, a memory that absorbed the cheer and radiated it’s glowing pulse with waves of positive energy. Jack had spent a considerable amount of time in inns, hotels and motels. Even though the rooms had been lived in by hundreds of others it didn’t have an aura. There was something special about Brock and there was something special about this place. Or maybe special things just followed him. Jack couldn’t be sure. 

Brock looked at him when he entered, sharing that half smile that lives so closely to his heart. “Pizza,” he said, continuing to knead the dough. His hands weren’t very large but they were quick and well practiced. 

“Pizza!” TJ contributed with a cheer. 

“I can’t wait.” 

And he couldn’t. What he wouldn’t give to sit at the table with Brock as more than a guest. What he wouldn’t give to hold Brock’s hand in his own. But that was his mind running a muck, his heart urging him to do something foolish and rash. He put away his things, resting his canvas on the desk to dry the few paint strokes he’d managed. Jack no longer trusted himself around Brock too much. Tomorrow would be a challenge for him, testing his abilities at corralling his heart. He hoped he would be so taken by the scenery his tongue wouldn’t loosen on him. He rested on his bed, mind churning too much to even consider reading his book. Time slipped away from because next thing he knew TJ was at the doorway, knocking the way Brock had taught him. 

“It’s pizza time!” 

Jack smiled, his energy was infectious. Jack followed him down the stairs as Jack explained that Brock had made pizza bianca with mozzarella on top. And one with ‘yucky green stuff’ and mozzarella. Brock had in fact made them, one plain and the other with spinach. Jack would always be blown away by his skill and how casual it seemed for him. Not only did it look incredible, it tasted even better. Crisp and light, refreshing and yet the richness of the cheese complimented it well. Brock accepted his praise with flushed cheeks, as if he somehow felt he didn’t deserve it. Jack hoped he didn't feel that way. His talent was one meant to be cherished. If Brock was his, he’d remind him everyday. If Brock was his there were a lot of things he would do. Cherish him all ways possible and seek out new ways as well. It was a tall order, and Jack knew that, but it was a feat worthy of Brock. It was strange and wonderful, all this passion that had been kindled by him when he was unaware. It was just as heartbreaking as it was awe-inspiring, feeling so much that must be smothered and extinguished. 

One day, Jack thought with his chest swelling with hope, one day he would find words to appraise what he felt. The time it took weighed on Jack heavily. He could be delaying his own heartbreak, but he could also be wasting precious time, should he feel the same way. The risk, for now at least, was just too big, too daunting to try and stake his claim on Brock Rumlow. So while he couldn’t say he loved him, he could say, “This might be the pizza I’ve ever eaten.” 

That delicate blush crept across his cheeks, a dusting on his cheekbones. Jack wanted to paint him now more than ever as he averted his eyes a bit and looked to TJ. “No picking cheese off my plate.” 

Jack hadn’t even noticed the sneaky little fingers pinching the mozzarella on his father’s piece of pizza. Such a funny, strange child. Jack enjoyed him immensely. He knew better than to laugh of course, this behaviour Brock clearly wasn’t encouraging. “Sorry daddy,” he said, pulling his hand back, cheeseless. 

He looked more sad about being caught than the actual scolding. He looked at Jack next. “Can I have your cheese, Jack?”

“TJ.” 

“I asked first!” 

“If you want more cheese finish that piece and I’ll get you a slice.” 

The boy perked up and picked up the piece, taking a big bite out of it. “I was thinking we’d leave at nine tomorrow,” Brock said, picking up his glass of water. “Give the tide time to come in. It’s… It’s an old boat, I don’t want to push it too hard.” 

“We’re gonna go see the cave! I’ve got an orange life vest, Jack!” 

“I remember hearing something about a while ago. I’m very excited to see it.” 

“It’s not a toy,” TJ told in a warning tone. “It’s to keep me safe so I can’t take it off.” 

“We’ll be sure to leave it on then.” 

TJ nodded gravely and took another bit of his pizza. Jack tried to help with dishes but Brock was firmly refusing so Jack went upstairs to grab his easel. There was still daylight, perhaps he could accomplish a bit more now he'd been around Brock. Creativity flowed around him. Maybe it was experiencing his art that fueled his own. TJ tried to follow but his father corralled him back in with a reminder that it was bath night and that TJ had best get busy picking out which toys would be joining him. It was clearly a long winded task because TJ nodded and walked away muttering under his breath on which ones he needed. Jack left and embraced the scenery. He was eager to view the grottos and cathedral. He wanted to see everything this island offered. And he wanted to do with Brock. 

He set up in front of the palmorala, it’s fanning fringes of green begging to be painted. But it felt like a wasted canvas. He’d never considered abandoning a painting before and it was startling to realize how deeply his pull towards Brock went. That the mere idea of him had woven deeply into his soul and his mind. He sat there a while, just staring at this strange, strange plant that had journeyed so far to populate here. It was strange but that’s what made it so special. It was everything that Jack would have wanted to paint a few weeks ago. But now… Now his fingers twitched eagerly at the idea of painting Brock. 

Maybe in the kitchen, his hands kneading dough, looking over his shoulder to remind TJ about his lessons. Or maybe him over the stove, pickling blueberries while his curly haired son stood a safe distance away. The ideas were endless, some harmless like Brock slightly disheveled from too much wine to Brock’s in his full form, naked and glowing under low lamplight. Maybe with a sheet slung over his hips -- or better yet, without one at all. He wanted to shade every shadow, highlight every line. Dusk began to creep across the sky, pushing the light towards the setting sun. Jack stayed to watch it, lines of amber laying across the sky and reflecting on the water. He wished he could stay longer but he wasn’t nearly familiar enough with the terrain to traverse back to the house with just the moon to guide him. 

The house was quiet but upstairs he could hear Brock reading to TJ. He went into his room and grabbed a towel and his soap. A bath sounded nice. It would give him time to clear his head and prepare himself for what he was going to see. He wouldn’t have the luxury of painting while looking at it, he’d have to rely on his memory and while he was a bit worried about it, he also embraced the challenge. What was the fun if you didn’t push yourself? He settled down in the hot water, eyelids weighed down immediately. His muscles were soothed and tension he’d been carrying was released. He stared up at the ceiling. There were exposed wooden beams though they had been polished and reflecting the lights in the bathroom. Jack stared at it, wondering if it had been done by whomever lived here before Brock and his absent lover or if it had been their doing. If so he wondered how much they had customized the house, turning it into a home. 

He wondered why it drove a stake in his heart just imagining it. He had no right to include himself in Brock’s life, no claim over him. And he wasn’t the kind of man who had a primitive drive to eradicate the past of his lovers. And they weren’t even lovers which made his reactions all the more inappropriate. He closed his eyes and slid down, submerged his face. He opened his eyes, staring up at those exposed beams. He could help but imagine Brock standing there, a man with a face blurred out at his side staring at the same exact thing. Then, the man had a face. It was Jack’s. Enamored, absorbed he stared. The ache for air in his lungs was pushed to the back of his mind by how satisfying, gratifying it was to see him like that. To have his arm around Brock’s waist. To be pressed side by side. His lungs started to burn but it wasn’t enough to jerk out of his fantasy. Brock was smiling, that beautiful unabashed smile that Jack so rarely got to glimpse. When the fantasy started to border on black he jerked up, breaking the surface with a ragged inhale and hoarse cough. The image had dissipated when he opened his eyes. He blinked away the irritation of the hot water and sighed in disappointment. If only he’d been able to hold on longer. Maybe he would have seen them kiss. Maybe he would have seen Brock look at him like he cared for him. That he loved him. 

But it was a fantasy and he knew that. A projection of what he, himself, desired. The chances of Brock feeling the same way was… No, he didn’t want to think about that right now. The hot water cooled a bit now so Jack cleaned himself. He felt no urge to satisfy himself, too disappointed in what he’d lost. He’d forgotten his night clothing, too caught up in the idea of a hot bath so he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. It was late, Brock was never awake and TJ was already in bed so he didn’t fear being indecent around them. He walked down the hall. The kitchen light was on, as it usually was when Brock went to bed and Jack was still awake. He didn’t think anything of it, rounding the corner. But the kitchen wasn’t empty. 

Brock was standing there, back to him, slicing up cold cuts. Jack froze, undetected. He knew he should say something but he couldn’t muster the courage so he just watched on silently. Brock handled the knife so well, rolling the blade down on the salted pork which laid over it’s each other as though they’d been cut by a butcher. He put it back into the fridge, back still towards Jack. He began to feel a bit guilty, like he was spying on Brock -- because, honestly, he was -- but he still couldn’t make himself known. He had to know this side of Brock, to see who he was when there was no one looking. A real, raw, image. As he took a loaf of bread out of its plastic bag he began to hum under his breath. It wasn’t a tune Jack was familiar with but it became his favorite regardless. He began to slice the bread, just two slices. Jack realized this was a late night snack, not preparation for tomorrow. 

It wasn’t surprising when Jack really thought about it. Brock was a chef, a man who liked fresh ingredients and meals -- that didn’t equal sandwiches prepared in advance. He picked up a jar of brown mustard that Jack hadn’t noticed and smeared it on the bread, still humming under his breath. The bread went back into the bag, the meat layers on with a thick cut piece of what smelled like gouda. The cheese and mustard were returned to the fridge and Brock turned around. 

The man jumped, nearly dropping his sandwich, eyes popped wide in fear. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jack considered spilling the truth of what he had been doing but instead he did something that left a bad taste in his mouth. He lied. “I was just coming out to turn off the light. Usually you leave it on for me.” 

He blinked, clearly trying to shake off the moment. “You just caught me by surprise is all,” Brock said, looking down with red cheeks. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get out of your way. Oh, uh, do you want a sandwich?” 

Jack knew it was a polite offer not one that Brock wanted Jack to take him up on. “No thank you.” 

“I can heat up some pizza as well.” 

Jack wondered if he wanted to accept. He wasn’t particularly hungry but he wasn’t going to refuse Brock’s company if he was asking for it. “If it’s no trouble.” 

“No trouble,” Brock said, immediately turning to the fridge.

“I’ll go get dressed,” Jack said as he realized he was standing in his kitchen nearly nude. 

“It’ll be a few minutes,” Brock said, turning on the oven. 

Jack had never gotten dressed faster than he did that night, all but sprinting back down to the kitchen. The smell of reheated pizza bianca and Jack’s mouth watered. Brock had a plate now, sandwich resting on it as he leaned against the kitchen sink. He straightened up as Jack walked, smiling. He seemed on edge however and Jack second guessed his choice to accept the offer. Maybe it had been a secondary level of politeness and not a true invitation. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? Wine?” 

“Wine sounds lovely.” Jack said because sharing another glass of wine with Brock sounded like heaven. 

Brock excused himself and Jack drew in a few steadying breaths. He hadn’t had a moment like this before. Usually there was TJ as a buffer for any deeper conversations. Not that he was complaining. TJ wasn’t a barrier in the least but it was hard to carry on an adult conversation with a child present. Jack wasn’t certain what kind of adult conversations he wanted to have with Brock he liked the idea of having the option. And tonight he had that opportunity. It was exciting and terrifying and those feelings together made it electrifying. There was so much he wanted to say but so little he dared to. It was easy to shatter a fledgling friendship and Jack didn’t want to put Brock in an uncomfortable place and he wasn’t ready to be driven out should Brock not share his sentiment. But he was allowed to dream and these interactions added layers to it. Made it all the more real when he had time to delve into his fantasies. To make his voice inflections correct in those stolen, sinful nights where he took himself in his fist. He felt guilty masturbating to the man but he was just a man, just a human being with urges that begged to be satisfied. And it was Brock and that seemed to make any points against his feelings in the matter null and void. He just hoped that it wouldn’t be a fantasy forever. He wasn’t sure he could handle not knowing. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he would finally lay it all out on the table. Tell Brock that he had fallen in love with him. Tell him that he was the first thing he thought about and the last thing on his mind. That he lived in his dreams as well and Jack was so disappointed when he woke up. 

Brock produced a bottle of chardonnay and gave him his plate. It was quiet between them, sipping wine between bites. “It’s beautiful there,” Brock said. 

Jack was relieved at the conversation topic. “I am very excited to see it.” 

“It’s one of a kind. Gr -- ” Brock’s eyes clouded a bit and he took a drink of his wine. “TJ really likes it there.” 

“Would you mind if I sketch there? Or would you rather a short trip?” 

“There’s no rush, weather pending. It looks like it’ll be clear but you never know.” 

“Of course.” 

“It’s why we moved here.” Brock said, looking down at his drink. “It was… We were here visiting and we fell in love with it. I grew up in Scilla and went to America with her when I was fifteen. The States never really felt like home.” Brock sharing intimate details of his life had Jack sitting still, enrapt. “I never thought we’d actually make the move but when we got back Grant put the house up for sale and a year later here we were. We bought the restaurant with our savings.” 

Grant. Finally the missing man had a name. Jack wanted to ask, wanted to know what had gone wrong. It wasn’t his place to ask and he knew that. But he couldn’t help but wonder. TJ still spoke fondly of him so it couldn’t have been too long ago, he couldn’t be more than seven or eight now. 

“But anyway,” Brock’s eyes were once more swimming with the past. Jack wanted to dive into his memories. Understand what had happened so he could help. “What about you? I don’t believe you told me what got you into painting.”

“I always enjoyed painting and my grandmother saw promise in it. When she passed she willed me a good portion of her estate but only if I traveled to paint. It hardly felt like an ultimatum. Travelling to see and capture the beauty in this world was a dream.”

“Sounds like a very loving woman.” 

“She was. May I ask about your family?” 

“My dad had a falling out with my nonna and so we went to the States.” Brock shrugged but Jack could tell there was something left unsaid. He knew better than to press. “Brooklyn, New York.” 

“Ah, I couldn’t put my finger on the accent.” 

Brock smiled, a real smile not one from suppressed memories he clearly didn’t want to think about. Jack was getting better at traversing conversations with Brock and he prided himself on that. “It was a lot different from Scilla.” 

“Scilla was named after the sea monster Scylla, right?” 

Brock looked surprised. “I -- yeah, that’s right. From Greek Mythology. Did you stop there?” 

“For about a week, yes. I painted the coastline.” 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” 

The way Brock’s face was highlighted by the stove top light behind him and the sparkle in his eyes Jack couldn’t help but say, “Yes, beautiful.” 

They stared at each other a moment, Jack afraid to break the fragile silence. His brown eyes were like melted chocolate, creamy and rich and full of life in a way Jack hadn’t gotten a chance to see. Brock suddenly looked down at his wine, cheeks pink. Jack started to wonder if maybe he felt similar. Or maybe he was looking too closely at nothing and projecting his own wants. 

“Where else have you gone?” Brock was still looking at wine, swirling it around although it didn’t need to be aired. “Before Italy, I mean.” 

“South America; Brazil, Peru, Chile, and Aruba. Cuba was tricky. I had to go up to Canada and fly from there. But I did visit Nome, Alaska to paint the town. A musher even allowed me to paint him on his sled with a team of dogs. And here in Europe Spain and the UK, Germany, France and Switzerland.” 

“What do you do with all these paintings?”

“I ship them home. It would be impossible to carry them all with me.” 

Brock nodded his head. “Right, sorry. Dumb question.” 

“There’s no dumb question.” Jack argued. “I could ask you a million about cooking. I can’t even boil an egg properly.” 

“I could show you a few things, if you’d like. When you have free time I could give you a bit of a crash course on basics.” 

Jack was startled by the offer and eagerly accepted. “Thank you!” Jack considered it a moment and then said, “I’m still curious about those pickled blueberries.” 

“They’re different but they’re good. I’ll have to include the ingredients to make goat cheese toasts.” 

“I await it eagerly.” 

Brock turned to check the time and drained his wine. “I should get to bed. I have to wake up early to prepare the boat. If… If it’s not too much to ask do you mind keeping an eye on TJ. He likes to help and well, sometimes, his helping makes things take even longer.”

“I don’t mind at all.” 

Brock smiled and once more Jack was breathless. “Thank you.” 

“It’s no trouble.” 

“Well thank you anyway.” 

He washed his plate, dried and put it in its proper spot. Brock was very orderly. Jack liked that. He finished his pizza and sat there, just absorbing what had happened. Getting to know Brock Rumlow felt like a gift. It was a gift Brock had no idea he’d given and that was okay. Jack would hold it close to his heart. He copied Brock, washing and putting away his plate before he went upstairs and got into bed. He was up for a while, thinking about Brock leaving here and returning, about who Grant was, about the grottos and rock cathedral. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to paint more. No, he knew exactly what he wanted to paint. He wanted to paint Brock. His face was burned in his memory and for once he felt like he could paint properly without looking at the object of his painting. He sat up in bed and picked up the canvas he’d started on and got out his white paint. He stayed up letting layers dry and once he had a clean canvas to work with he started to sketch. He stayed up as late as he could before his eyes burned with exhaustion. Had he not had the trip coming in the morning he would have stayed up until he got Brock’s jawbone just right. But he had obligations and plans. He settled pretty easily and his dreams were, as usual, full of Brock’s face, holding Jack’s hands, kissing him, lying together as sunlight streamed in from the window. And when he heard the pattering of the little feet in the hallway he left that dream world behind. It pained him, as usually did, but knowing what awaited him cushioned those feelings. 

Breakfast was sizzling on the stove and TJ was already dressed and sitting propped on his knees at the table. He was clinking the salt and pepper shakers together as he told Brock how excited he was to ride in the boat. “Are we gonna catch fishes too?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“But I like to catch fishes!” 

“Another day,” Brock said. 

TJ sighed heavily in discontent but didn’t argue. “Good morning,” Jack said to announce his presence. 

Brock looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Good morning.” 

“Hi Jack! Guess what? We can’t catch fishes.” TJ said bitterly. 

“I think you dad said you can another day.” 

“But I want to do it today,” TJ extended the ‘today’ to properly convey his anguish. 

“I know.” Brock said. “Hey, how about go find your boat hat.” 

“Oh! Jack I have a boat hat. Do you want to see?” 

“I would like nothing more.” TJ looked at him, confused so Jack reworded, “I would love to see your hat.” 

“My boat hat,” TJ reminded him. “I have lots of hats. My bug hat, my sun hat, my yellow hat for when it’s rainy, a knitted heat Daddy made for when it’s cold -- that one has a pom-pom on it. I have a beach hat that’s made outta...what’s it’s called?” 

“Wicker.” 

“Yeah! That.” 

“You definitely have a lot of hats. I wish I had that many hats.” 

“They’re too small for you but I’d share if I could!” 

“I appreciate that.” 

He scampered upstairs and Brock said, “Thank you. I know… I know he can be a lot sometimes.” 

“I think he’s interesting. It’s a treat to be around him.” Had Grant felt differently? Was that why he wasn’t around. 

“Thank you.” Brock said. 

It smelled like bacon and eggs, a good ol’ American breakfast in preparation for the trip. There was a basket on the counter teeming with parchment wrapped sandwiches, jars of this and that, a bottle of wine and a jar of milk. Jack always felt a bit helpless when Brock was cooking. He wanted to lend a hand but he knew doing so would be disastrous and he didn’t want to ruin everyone’s breakfast with his mistakes. “Can I…” Shit, Jack was already succumbing to the urges. “I know how to make toast. If that’d be helpful.” 

Brock laughed. It was such a wonderful lap. He wished he could record it and listen to it over and over while he painted him. “It’s nice of you to offer but I already made it.” 

“Oh.” 

“I’m about to plate it,” Brock told him. 

“Okay.” Jack didn’t like one word answers so he added, “It smells great.” 

“Bacon has a way of making everything smell good.” 

“I can’t argue with that.” 

TJ returned with a bucket hat with actual boats printed on them. “See? It’s my boat hat.” 

“It’s very nice.” 

TJ nodded in agreement. “It’s my favorite hat after my bug hat.” 

“I can understand why.” 

Brock set down the plates. Sunny side up eggs, two triangle cut toasted bread and strips of bacon beside it. “Oh yay! The goopy eggs.” 

“Goopy eggs?” 

“Yeah-huh. You poke it with your toast and the yummy goop comes out you scoop up with your toast. Daddy says it’s yolk but I think goopy sounds better, don’t you agree?” 

“It’s very creative.” 

TJ squinted but seemed to take it as a yes because he grinned and got busy breaking the yolks -- goopy stuff, Jack corrected himself -- open. Brock offered espresso but he settled for water. Before long Brock was at the table and they were all eating together. It was nice. It felt like a family. It was a dangerous line of thinking, leaving him wide open to be wounded by an unrequited love. Once breakfast was cleared and the dishes clean Brock left to ready the ship. Jack wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with TJ but TJ quickly asked about painting. Jack was certain of the timeframe so he played it safe and suggested they draw instead. TJ was agreeable, showing Jack where the paper and crayons were kept. Jack wasn’t well versed in sketching in crayons but he made the best he could with the wax instruments. He drew a sea bird, something he’d seen so often he was confident in doing so from memory alone. TJ was absorbed in his drawing, tongue poking out as he scribbled in blue, then brown. Brock still wasn’t back so he started on shading, coloring the coast line with as much care as he possibly could without a fine tip. He was shading when the door opened. 

Brock looked flushed and it was a good look on him. Would he flush that way after an orgasm, when he was lying in the arms of his lovers did he smile with rosy cheeks the way he was now. “We’re coloring.” TJ told him. 

“I see that. How about we clean this up and get our shoes on.” 

“My water shoes?” 

“That’s right.” 

Jack didn’t have any. “Do you need them?” 

“The reef can be sharp. Do you not have a pair?” Brock frowned. 

“I… I didn’t think I’d need them.” 

Brock stood quietly and then said, “What size are you?” 

“Thirteen.” 

Brock smiled but it was sad. “I have a pair you can use.” 

Jack had a feeling these water shoes had belonged to the infamous Grant. Well, Jack wasn’t sure it was fair to refer to him as such until he had a full story. Or a fuller one, rather. Brock returned with a black pair, well loved. “Here. I don’t want you to get hurt out there.” 

“Thank you Brock.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Daddy I wanna go to the boat now!” TJ pranced in place impatiently. “Jack look at my water shoes! They’re green. They’re neat, huh?” 

“Very neat.” Jack made quick work slipping in them. They were broken in and fit like a charm. 

Brock was staring down at them, lost in the past with a small smile that was neither happy nor was it sad. It just…was. 

TJ whined and that jerked Brock out of his stupor, cheeks once more regaining its color as he realized he’d been staring at Jack’s feet. Why he felt that way fascinated Jack but once more it didn’t feel right to say anything. Just letting things lie was Jack’s plan for today. He could appreciate him from afar but he did want to paint the Cathedral and grottos. They departed for the boat. It was a cape islander with a red painted hull. The paint was faded and chipping in some places but it looked sturdy. TJ clamored in immediately and Brock climbed in first before taking Jack’s equipment and setting it carefully down. He offered his hand to Jack and, despite not needing it, he took it. The skin was soft and hardened by working with his hands. He could have held on forever but once he was steady he regretfully drew it away. 

Brock knew his way around the controls and TJ filled him in that they didn’t usually take the boat. Jack just enjoyed being on the water and how picturesque Brock looked at the wheel. A stretching cerulean sky above and the ultramarine water below. TJ had taken a small backpack of trip necessities (his words, not Brock’s) and turned out to be a stuffed wolf, a handful of matchbox cars and some chunky Legos. He had his orange life jacket on looking calm and content. It was a lovely moment, serene. Jack wished he could live in it forever while also anxious to get on location. 

When they arrived Jack was in awe. The cliff had been shaped and carved into by the wind and sea, an array of colors blended into the cliff face. There was something unworldly about it, ethereal, spires of rock reaching for the heavens. Brock brought the boat to a stop, dropped anchor and then faced Jack with an uncertain smile. “Here it is. Hopefully it lives up to expectations.” 

It didn’t. His expectations had been dwarfed by the majesty before him. “It’s perfect.” 

TJ hastily shoved his things into his pack. “Can we go swimming now?” 

It was a balmy 80 degrees, a perfect temperature to get in the water. Plus he wanted to see the grottos up close before he started to paint. “We can show you the caves.” 

“You can see the night birds!” TJ added with a big beaming smile. 

Jack smiled back. “I can’t wait.” 

Brock began to strip and Jack’s mouth went dry. It shouldn’t have been so scandalous, Jack looking away because he didn’t trust his body not to respond to the olive skin being exposed to him. Shedding off his shirt and pants he waited patiently for Brock to help TJ untangle from his clothes. Brock passed Jack a waterproof flashlight and got in first and caught TJ when he jumped in. He clung to his father with a whimper of fear at first. Jack slipped into the water. It was comfortable to the skin, warmed by the sun. There wasn’t a soul out there, their own private paradise. 

“There are underwater tunnels here that are gorgeous. I wouldn’t risk exploring them without diving gear though.” 

Jack wasn’t too keen on underwater tunnels but he appreciated the fact Brock was so forthcoming with the beauty of this place. TJ finally peeled away from his father, ready to trust in his life jacket. He paddled over to where Jack was treading water. 

“Come one we gotta show you the nightbirds!” 

“I can’t wait.” 

The grottos had high arches, glowing blue as the sun bounced off the water. Brock had to anchor a distance away so not to disturb the beautiful reefs below them. Fish darted around underneath them. TJ caught sight of a sand shark and panicked despite the shark quickly sweeping away. He clung close to his father who assured him the shark wasn’t going to eat his toes. 

“I only have ten of them! I don’t want to lose any.” 

“You’re wearing your shoes,” Brock reminded him.

TJ’s panic heightened. “No, I don’t want it to eat my shoes!” 

“It’s okay,” Brock assured him. Jack could only look on in awe at his ability to soothe his son from hysterics to reason. “Look it’s gone away. It’s more scared of you than you are of it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“If he wasn’t he would have stuck around, right?” 

TJ looked at the sky, humming. “Yeah, okay.” He let go of Brock’s arm. “I knew that. I just forgoted.” 

“I know.” 

They got closer to the grottos and Jack admired the resplendent gold and silver colored rocks. The water inside was still and the rock smooth and shiny, dotted with coral and sea anemones. TJ was on a mission however, taking the lead and heading into a secondary grotto. “Sorry,” Brock said. “He’s very excited to see the birds. You can come if you’d like but it’s a bit dark.” 

“Jack!” his voice echoed from inside the grotto in what was probably his idea of a whisper. “Come see in the nightbirds.” 

Brock smiled, a bit apologetic and Jack dismissed it with a grin. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.” 

The mouth was mostly underwater but TJ had been small enough to squeeze through without getting his head wet. Jack dove under, leaving the bright blue grotto and entering a sea cave that seemed more fitting of the word. It was still and quiet, light beams coming from various holes in the ceiling where the night birds came and went. The walls of the cave were full of ledges and the ledges housed birds. 

“Papa told me what they’re called,” TJ said. “Daddy do you remember? I can’t remember.” 

Jack watched Brock but he didn’t flinch this time. Maybe he was adjusting to him being referenced. “Storm petrels.” 

“Storm petrel, Jack, that’s what they’re called.” TJ swam closer to a low ledge and the bird popped its head from where it’d been tucked under its wing. “Hello birdie.” 

The bird ruffled its feather and chirped once, much to Jack’s amazement. It tucked his head again and TJ said, “Goodbye birdie.” 

They went back to exploring the caves with the assistance of the flashlights. It wasn’t something he’d be painting but the opportunity to have such a majestic place open for exploration and not taking advantage of it pained him. Brock didn’t seem to mind the journey. TJ was occupied with playing with Brock’s flashlight. Brock stuck close to Jack and that made the experience better. There was so much to see with not much time. When TJ complained of hunger they headed back to the boat. Jack got the chance to admire Brock emerging from the water, water streaming down his olive skin, dark gray trunks plastered to him like a second skin, cupping his ass in a way that was near pornographic. Jack quickly averted his eyes and used all his self control not to get an erection. He lifted TJ up to be pulled back onto the boat by his father and got out of the water himself. TJ was bundled into a towel with smiling frogs on it and Jack was offered a towel of his own. He pushed back his sopping wet hair and toweled off.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock makes an unexpected discovery. And they have pie.

It had been a long time since Brock had visited the Cathedral and explored the caves. He had expected it hurt, to tear open his wounds all over again. But it hadn’t. He was reminded of exploring the caves with Grant, bringing TJ here to visit the birds and have a picnic at sea. But it wasn’t painful. It was almost exciting, a newfound experience. Maybe it was the fact it was Jack. There was a very good chance that it was because it was Jack and that was scary. 

Once he was dry enough to handle the food without getting it wet he unpacked it. Sandwiches were wrapped in parchment paper with thick cuts of cheese and folds of tender roast beef. He had a glass bottle of milk for TJ and had packed a bottle of iced tea and a bottle of wine. Brock had wanted to leave options open for Jack. He took out the container of toasts he’d made before making breakfast. He took out the pepper grinder, dish of goat cheese, and jar of blueberries. TJ asked Jack for help with his life vest. Brock was about to tell him to come over so he could do it, unwilling to burden Jack -- he was technically the boarder after all -- but Jack had already finished the task. TJ went back to his toy bag while he waited for lunch to be set up. It didn’t take long to get things set up, TJ coming to sit beside him as Brock gave him his sandwich. 

“Pickled blueberries,” Jack said when he caught sight. He looked a bit hesitant and Brock smiled. 

“They’re good. I promise.” 

“I trust you,” Jack said and that reluctance did fade much to Brock’s shock.

Brock tried to not to read too much into that or he would be driving himself crazy the entire trip, seeing signs that weren’t there. Finding evidence that maybe Jack felt the same way as him. But just because he didn’t shy away from the fact he had once had a life with another man didn’t mean he was gay. And even if he was, that didn't automatically equal attraction. Brock got busy smearing the goat cheese onto the toast and spooning a few pickled berries on top. Jack took it and inspected from every angle the way TJ did when Brock made something new for dinner. Jack took a bite chewing thoughtfully. Brock wished he could read him better. What if he hated it? 

“I cannot believe that I like pickled blueberries.” 

Relief flooded through him. “They’re different but they’re good.” 

“I’m beginning to realize that everything you make is good. I have to stop doubting you.” 

Brock’s cheeks heated up like he was back in high school, talking to his crush. “It’s just… I didn’t make the recipe or anything.” Brock kept his hands busy, unwrapping TJ’s sandwich and separating the triangles the way he liked. 

“Perhaps but you assembled it beautifully.” 

Brock’s face was flushed even darker. “Thank you.” he said lamely. 

Obviously Brock knew he was talented, even in America he was well versed in the kitchen and people took notice. Grant told him he could bring the fine dining flair to anything. Brock held the compliment close to his heart and now it was being joined by Jack’s. It should have felt wrong to even consider them in the same class but here he was. He wasn’t burdened by guilt, he was horrified at himself for it. It simply...was. Accepted like it had always belonged, like it was meant to be there. Brock gave him his sandwich and busied himself with eating his own. They traded more casual conversation after. Jack reiterating how incredible the caves were and thanking Brock for taking him. Brock could do little but tell him it wasn’t the grand deal he thought it to be. 

Bringing the boat out had been a bit trying at first. He remembered readying it with Grant like it was yesterday instead of four years ago. Four years. Four years and Brock was still abashed at the idea of seeing someone else. Horrified at liking someone else. But as he adjusted, as this crush on Jack haunted him, it was starting to feel...not okay but rather acceptable. Normal. Human. 

Jack set up his easel and TJ grew drowsy from such an active morning. Brock took him below deck where a small cot was cramped among supplies and machinery. “‘m not taking a nap,” TJ told him sleepily. “I’m just giving my eyes a rest.” 

“Of course.” 

As soon as his head hit the pillow he was out. Brock was left in an awkward position, unsure of what to do with himself. He couldn’t go wade into the inlets with their smooth basin and think about Jack a safe distance from him. He grabbed a spray bottle of dish soap and water and kept busy wiping down everything within reach before going to topside to do the same. Brock hoped he wasn’t distracting Jack who was busy sketching the Cathedral and grottos. When he ran out of things to clean he sat in the chair at the helm and stared off into the distance. He thought about Grant -- as he often did -- and wondered if he would have been friends with Jack. He wasn't an artsy type. He’d spent most of his days on this very boat bringing in fresh caught fish for the restaurant. And on off seasons he stayed busy coming up with schemes of mischief with TJ. A fond, sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips. They would be, he decided. He would see the kindness in Jack’s eyes and embrace him as a friend. Maybe they would fish together -- although, no, Brock couldn’t see Jack fishing. But he’d come along. Passing beers when needed, talking about this and that but nothing too important. They would be pals and Brock… 

Brock would be his friend too. Jack would sit by Grant’s bedside and grieve with Brock. Would be there at the funeral. Would help him trudge through legal documents and heartache. 

Maybe they would fall in love. Slowly, not too fast, just the two of them connecting over a shared heartbreak. Then Brock would be okay with; he’d know that Grant was looking down and smiling because Jack was meant for Brock. 

“I like your smile.” Jack said suddenly and Brock was jerked back to reality. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“No I…” His face was flaming red. He probably looked insane smiling at nothing. “I was thinking.” 

It was a lame excuse -- well, not an excuse, it was true. It just sounded lame and made up. Jack hummed eyes back on the canvas. “It’s a very nice smile.” he said. 

Brock just blushed. 

TJ woke up cranky, throwing his toys. One Lego went overboard and he cried until Brock retrieved it for him. Jack suggested returning, claiming he had everything he needed. Some days it was hard not to get frustrated at TJ. It wasn’t his fault he got overwhelmed, that sudden changes could knock his world off kilter in a way only a child could understand. Item permanency and all that. Brock couldn’t pretend to be an expert. When Grant and Brock had taken him in after Grant’s kid sister had him, a prom night accident, they didn’t know they were dealing with a child that had special needs. It wasn’t a bad thing, it just left them both feeling underprepared. TImes like this he felt that way. Though, through trial and error, Brock had picked up a few tips and knew that returning to shore, getting TJ reacquainted with the home and what he was used to, would smooth over the upset he was experiencing. 

He spent the ride back mumbling to himself between sniffles. Brock rubbed his back and he tucked closer to him. Jack was still sketching. Brock hurried up as he docked the ship. He couldn’t ask for Jack’s assistance, not when TJ was so volatile. Jack seemed to understand because he didn’t offer to take TJ home; instead he offered to help him get the ship properly docked and the cover back on. At home TJ vanished upstairs to most likely sleep and Jack went to his room to continue his sketching. Brock unpacked the trash from the basket, stowing away leftovers, and carried on with chores to keep the house going. He was starting dinner when TJ came back. He had perked up nicely and hugged Brock tightly. 

“Can we go collect seashells tonight?” 

Brock brushed his thumbs over his cheeks. They were a touch sunburnt, his skin so fair it was hard to keep him from getting burnt despite Brock’s best efforts. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight I thought we could make a pie together.” 

“A pie? An apple pie? Or a meat pie?” 

Brock hadn’t made a meat pie in a while but he knew that TJ was fond of it. The word pie made him think he was getting away with dessert for dinner. “I was thinking apple. Maybe we can make some homemade ice cream. If you’re up to it.” 

“I’m up for it! I am, I am, I am!” 

Brock smiled. “Alright then, how about we get to work?” 

TJ was a good assistant, looking on while Brock peeled the apples. He took on the job of bringing the apple peels outside. He was Brock’s best little helper. He helped roll out of the dough and added the brown sugar, plain sugar, flour, ground nutmeg, ground cinnamon and ground ginger. He was careful with his measurement, making sure everything was leveled just so before they were added to the bowl of apples which were tossed in the mixture. They dumped the coated slices in and TJ watched on gleefully and Brock carefully criss-crossed dough on top. He pressed the crust with a spoon. He was no baker but he was capable of small things like pies, cookies and bread. Grant used to do the baking, his hidden talent being his ability to craft beautiful pastries. Without him Brock had to learn and while his cupcakes were sometimes ugly or dry, TJ never complained. Brock suspected he knew Brock was doing his best. 

Brock got to work on the tuna belly. He’d picked up a bluefin from Ciro not long ago for a great price. Brock had broken it down himself, something he was well versed in from the dozens he broke down for the restaurant. Grilled tuna belly just seemed fitting after a day on the ocean. Brock had forgotten how much he missed being out on the water. The days spent fishing to fill the freezer. Grant helping TJ to reel in small sea bass only for TJ to leap back with a squeal and dance in excitement as Grant released it back to the ocean. There were a lot of good memories on that boat and today… Today felt like one.

Brock started on the lemon roasted potatoes and TJ caught up the on school work they’d skipped today. His reading was getting better, Brock thought as cut up the potatoes. Brock dragged out the grill, sticking his head in to make sure that TJ was still reading. He was. Brock removed the leathery skin first then flayed off skate skin. He put the filets on and dunked back inside to get the garlic compound butter he’d forgotten. He brushed the filets before he flipped them, copying the action. He took them off the heat and sent TJ to tell Jack dinner was ready. He took out the pie with the potatoes, setting it on the rack to cool. When Jack came into the room Brock’s heart skipped a beat, further solidifying his feeling that he was currently in the thralls of a very juvenile (and very real) crush on the artist. 

Jack looked at his meal with surprise, as he always did, raining compliments on Brock about the food (“It just about melts in my mouth. Incredible Brock, just incredible.”) and the upcoming dessert (“Oh my, what did I do to deserve such a treat?”). Brock was flustered and offered lame humilities. TJ ate without fuss, though he was known to be picky about fish. He hated swordfish steaks. Even when hidden in batter and deep fried TJ had the very strange skill of being about to determine what fish it was by smell alone. Tuna usually went well, as did grouper. Shark either a hit or a miss. 

Dinner wrapped up nicely, Jack going upstairs to work on his painting and digesting while Brock and TJ made vanilla ice cream with ice, salt, sweet heavy cream and vanilla extract. Brock’s mind drifted to Jack, as it often did. It was easy to go through motions when he was miles away. A skill perfected when he was still grieving heavily for Grant and staying in bed all day wasn’t an option. He put their ice cream in the freezer and Brock went over vocabulary when he finished folding the towels he’d set aside. TJ did well on his ‘ow’ words but transitioning to ‘ew’ was a struggle so they put a bookmark in it. 

“That was really hard,” TJ complained, climbing up on the couch. “Can I have a pickled blueberry?” 

“We’re having pie.” 

TJ perked up. “Oh yeah! I forgot.” TJ looked around the room, humming a tune Brock couldn’t place and then said. “Is it pie time?” 

“Not quite yet.” 

“Can I go play?” 

“Are you going to bother Jack?” 

“Well, maybe for a minute. Just tell him I’m playing with my toys.” 

“He’s working.” 

“But, daddy, I won’t be here! What if he thinks I got lost!” 

“I’ll assure him you’re safe.” 

“What if he doesn’t believe you?” 

“Then I’ll show him.” 

“But you’re so busy. Maybe...maybe I should just tell him.” 

Brock sighed. “If you must. But that’s it. He needs to concentrate.” 

Brock had told him that TJ would be curious. Jack knew what he was getting into. Plus, he didn’t seem outwardly annoyed with TJ’s antics so he didn’t feel too poorly about TJ’s hopefully brief interruptions. There were no complaints so he assumed TJ was true to his word. The pie had cooled enough to be cut into and it was pushing seven thirty. He didn’t want to load TJ up with sugar before bed but he couldn’t deny him pie. He called up the stairs about the pie and Brock cut slices. TJ was downstairs first, climbing up onto his chair with an eager smile. Jack came down shortly afterwards and Brock admired his paint speckled hands. He had long, slender fingers. Brock wondered what those fingers felt like on his skin. He served the pie with a side of the ice cream they’d made -- TJ making sure that Jack knew that. Once more Jack complimented him and he tried to deflect them with feeble denials. 

Before long Brock was clearing the table and getting TJ in the bath. He sat on the closed toilet lid while sea monsters attacked TJ’s toy boat and wondered what being an artist was like. Was it like being a chef? He’d been told by more than one person that cooking was an art and he believed it, but it didn’t seem like the same kind of art that painting was. Maybe picking seasoning was like picking paint, technique in preparing each part individually for the right flavor the same was brush strokes. Plating, the final part of his artistic piece. Brock’s art was consumed. Jack’s would live forever. Maybe his recipes would outlive him. His way of making crispy pork belly would stick around, his methods referenced by other food artists. Food artist. No, it sounded too strange, too...self righteous. 

It was something to consider however as he washed TJ’s hair and assured him he wouldn’t let any suds get in his eyes. Once he was bundled up and picking out pajamas Brock’s mind wandered to Jack again. It was strange. Usually he thought about Grant, about how these very motions had been done together. But now he was thinking about Jack. He was beginning to realize this was a sign he had finally finished grieving. But he was still struggling to come to accept that his feelings were more than just sexual. The only time he thought about him sexually was in the safety of night when he fuck his fists and petend the hand on his cock wasn’t his own but Jack’s. But during the day hours Brock still thought about him. He appreciated all the little oddities, his voice, how good he was with TJ. His optimism, his green eyes, his smile, his little scar. He liked every bit of him. No, not liked, loved. And it had been so long since he fell in love with a man he had no idea how to function. He couldn’t remember how to hide it, how to behave so his thoughts weren’t obvious. 

There was a very good chance Jack wasn’t a gay man. The fact Brock was gay was treated like a secret on the island. They interacted with him as if he was just another man but not everyone would be as understanding. Brock thought it inappropriate to make his feelings obvious when he was staying under his roof. Like he was manipulating him. Brock took a deep breath and tucked in TJ. On his trip down he bumped into Jack who was going to take a bath. Jack smiled at him, making Brock’s heart flutter in his chest. Brock returned a smile he hoped wasn’t dopey. It must have been okay because Jack’s smile stayed and he went down the hall. 

Brock went back to his towels and finally got them finished. He put away the ones in Brock and TJ’s bathroom and then went to leave a stack on Jack’s bed. Brock knew he had no right poking through his things but the painting caught the corner of his eye. It was him. It was a painting of his face. Brock was struck speechless, unsure of what to make of it. He wasn’t certain of how long he stood there, staring down at the painting. He didn’t dare touch, he didn’t want Jack to know he’d seen it. So he set down the towels and busied himself the dessert dishes. His mind was spinning a mile a minute and he wasn’t sure what it meant. Could… Could Jack actually feel the same way? The possibility had been so low Brock had never seriously considered it but now… Now he wasn’t so sure his feelings were one sided.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They address the painting found.

Jack was feeling refreshed and ready to start on the Cathedral while his Brock painting dried. But he stopped dead when he saw the towels on the bed. The Brock painting was right there in the open. There was no way Brock hadn’t seen it. He got dressed quickly and took the steps two at a time, trying to think of an excuse. Brock was at the sink, back to him. He’d given no indication when Jack had walked though. Jack had assumed he didn’t hear him over the water. Maybe it was intentional. 

No. No Jack wouldn’t make up excuses. He’d follow his heart and if this broke him then so be it. Carrying his infatuation in his chest was wearing on him. It hurt. He needed to know for certain. 

“Brock.” 

“Hi.” Brock didn’t move and a bad feeling settled in his gut. 

“The painting…” 

“I shouldn’t have gone in your room.” Brock said. 

“It’s your house, you have every right.” 

Brock didn’t respond and, with a heavy heart Jack said, “I’m… I’m very fond of you Brock. If you don’t feel that same way that’s perfectly okay.” 

Brock’s shoulder hunched. “I feel the same way.” he said as though the words caused him pain. 

Jack took it a step further. “I think I’m in love with you.” 

“What?” Brock turned around. Jack could see tears standing in his eyes and his gut twinged in regret. 

“I… I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy. I just… I just… Hell, I’ve never met someone like you. You’re… You’re strong and your feisty and you’re kind and patient. I’ve never felt so much for another person. I’ve struggled to paint anything since I met you. Nothing is as beautiful as you and I… I had to paint you. I know it’s a lot, I know it’s too fast. But I’m in love with you Brock.” 

Brock’s cheeks were a bit red but those tears were still there, threatening to spill over at any time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the way I have since I met you.” Brock said. His voice was stable. 

A silence settled between them. Riding a line between uncomfortable and fitting. “What next?” Brock asked, tongue sweeping along his bottom lip. 

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to kiss you.” 

Brock’s eyes widened a beat, rubbing his wet hand on jeans. “Okay.” 

Jack’s heart lurched at the permission, hands almost trembling. He took a step to close the space between them. He left space between them -- he wanted Brock to take that step to prove to him that this was something he really wanted. Brock hesitated before he closed the gap. Up close Jack could see flecks of gold in his eyes. Jack cupped his jaw, thumb along his jawline. Brock’s lips parted a bit, his eyes alight with nervousness, eagerness, fear and desire. Jack leaned down and pressed their lips together. It was almost electric, eltation snapping down his spine, his body accepting what it had so greedily wanted. It was a long kiss even with a few tears finding their ways down Brock’s cheeks. 

He pulled back and Brock quickly wiped away his tears. “Sorry,” he said in an emotionally husked voice. “I… I’m just getting over someone I lost a long time again.” 

Jack’s stomach clenched. Was it too soon? As if reading his mind Brock said, “It was a long time ago.”

“Is that…” 

“Grant. He was my partner. He passed four years ago. Cancer.” 

It was terse, facts without too much emotion. Jack didn’t want to dig too deeply, not with whatever this was that they had just constructed. They stood in the half lighting, the stove top light illuminated Brock’s silhouette. He was so beautiful. And Jack had gotten to kiss him. He wasn’t sure where it left them but he rested their foreheads together, sharing the same breath, finally falling in sync with one another. Jack wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, adjusting to to the feel of the other being in their space. He wanted it to go on forever but he knew that was impossible. Brock drew in a breath and stepped back. 

Jack copied the movement, fearing Brock had changed his mind. “I… It’s getting late.” he said, not quite meeting Jack’s eyes. “Can we talk tomorrow?” 

“Of course,” Jack said immediately. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

Brock smiled but there was something behind it that Jack couldn’t put a finger on. Regret? Jack hoped not. But if it was, he would, of course, respect it. Even though it would break him in every way, he would respect it. Brock excused himself and went upstairs. Jack waited a few minutes in the half light, looking out the window. The moon was bright and it illuminated the edges of the landscape outside. Jack had made either the best decision in his life or the worst. 

And only time would tell which it was.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Brock finally have a conversation about where they stand.

Brock stood in the shower, water too hot, staring at the mosaic tiles Brock and Grant had picked out. He felt strangely close to Grant in this shower typically. But tonight all he could think about was Jack. He hadn’t so much as rinsed his face yet, unwilling to wash away the feeling of Jack’s lips on his. It was strange to realize that the thing he’d wanted so much had come true and now here he was wondering if he was what he wanted. He did want it but he wasn’t ready to accept that he wanted it. 

The guilt, the guilt he was so certain he’d never get over, wasn’t as strong as expected. And for that Brock felt guilty. It wasn’t like four years wasn’t enough time to move on, it was. So why was he having so much trouble with it? He closed his eyes and leaned against the shower wall. 

“Why does it still feel too soon?” Brock whispered. 

He cut off the water and began to towel off. The real question hit him hard. Why was he so afraid to try? Grant would have wanted him happy -- had told him on his deathbed that all he wanted was for Brock to be happy. That meant happy with another man as well, didn’t it? If not he wouldn’t have phrased it that way. It must have. Or maybe Brock was just trying to find justifications to pursue a relationship with his boarder. It wasn’t like it would be forever. Even if Jack did truly love him he would have to move on eventually. Continue his expedition across the globe painting things he found beautiful. 

Maybe he would come back, a small voice in the back of Brock’s brain said. 

It wasn’t impossible but it was improbable. Who was to say he wouldn’t fall in love with someone else. Who is to say Brock wasn’t the first one. Was he ready to open his heart to potential heartbreak? There was also TJ to consider. Grant’s death had hit him hard. He wasn’t able to understand someone being there and then being gone. Of course he had been four at the time. Either way he didn’t want to put TJ’s heart on the line. But he was already attached to Jack and when he left it was going to break his heart. It would be easier to deal with TJ’s heartbreak if Brock’s wasn’t also shattered. 

But even with all that reason telling him that no, this was a very poor idea, he still wanted it. 

He still saw Jack’s smile when he blinked, he still pondered the correct shade of green for Jack’s eyes, he still thought about Jack in that towel with long hard lines, he still fantasized about what he had hidden beneath his towel. It was a greedy line of thought, one of primal instincts rather than calls of the heart. But Brock was human, he had urges that demanded to be satisfied. It had been years since he’d had sex and the longer he was around Jack the longer those years felt. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge. To throw himself in head first with protection over his heart. 

He stared in the mirror. He looked older, tired. What Jack saw in him he didn’t know. But the fact he saw anything meant more than Brock was willing to admit. To want to paint him, paint someone with eyes so drained and exhausted. Paint someone who had fallen to bits and glued himself into a man that was hardly the same as he once was. Once upon a time he was vain, and rightfully so. He carried himself with pride, he knew he was attractive and wanted everyone else to know it too. In a committed relationship but still interested in making others covet what Grant already had. These days he didn’t strut, he walked with a withholding gait, broken. 

Broken. That was what Brock was. So what was he looking to achieve? To be shattered once more and put back together by someone new? Was that person supposed to be Jack?

Too many questions, too many lines of thoughts. He rummaged for a bottle of aspirin and threw them back, cupping his hands under the tap to wash them down. He wiped his mouth on the towel and stared at himself again. What had he gotten himself into? 

Jack’s door was shut when Brock walked past it. The bed felt too big when he finally got under the covers. When Grant first passed TJ slept in bed with him. For the first time in a while Brock wished he was there. He didn’t want to rouse TJ out of sleep for something so selfish so he curled up and stared at the wall. Shadow crept up from the alarm clock. He watched the hours tick by. His eyes were itchy with sleep but his body was too keyed up. Brock’s fingers kept roaming up to his lips, fingertips playing over them as Brock reminsed the kiss. It was four am when he finally started to drift off. 

It felt as though he’d just fallen asleep when a little knee dug into his kidney hopping up and down. Brock groaned, rolling TJ off of him gently. “Daddy it’s breakfast time and you’re still sleeping!” 

Brock cracked open an eye. It was almost eight. His eyes burned with exhaustion as he sat up, rubbing them. “Sorry, Teej.” 

“It’s okay. You look really tired.” 

Really tired wasn’t the half of it. It was moments like these that he remembered he wasn’t some twenty-something who could run on four hours of sleep. TJ went back downstairs to tell Jack that Brock was awake while he got dressed. Guilt for running late for the second time filled him. It was seriously impacting how good he was at being a host. Although he expected Jack would be understanding. Oh, God. He had no idea what to say or how to act. He couldn’t anticipate how Jack would react either. TJ couldn’t know, he hoped that much was obvious. Not until Brock could put a name on whatever it was they were going to do. Brock made the decision to be frank. To air it all for the sake of overthinking complicating things worse than they already had. Jack was sitting at the table, telling Jack about going to get seashells today and asking if he was going to come. Jack looked at him as he walked in and Brock smiled the best he could with nerves knotting his stomach. 

Jack returned in, warm and genuine, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Brock wondered if it was for his sake or if ‘falling in love’ was a normal part of his trips. For a second Brock hesitated on his plan, afraid he’d sound desperate or stupid for reading too much into his confession. But last night it had felt so real. Maybe things had changed in all the time Brock had been grieving. Brock drew in a deep breath. 

“Sorry, I overslept.” 

“Don’t apologize.” 

“How does French Toast sound?” 

“Yay!” TJ cried. “With peach syrup?” 

“If Jack’s okay with it.” 

“Oh, yes please. I would never complain with your cooking.” 

Brock prepared the egg mixture and cut slices of bread to be soaked. TJ continued on about the seashells, how he sold them and how he’d saved up lots and lots of euros so far. Jack nodded along, listening intently. He was so good with TJ. If he stayed Brock knew that TJ would be safe with him. Brock cringed internally. He was getting so far ahead of himself it was laughable. He couldn’t help it, all of his reluctance suddenly shifted towards anticipation that made him more vulnerable than he would like. He busied himself with dredging the bread into egg, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar mixture. It was easy to get lost in cooking, his mind focused on the task with no space for anything but the task on hand. 

He had to make this, and it had to be perfect like the rest of his dishes. He plated the French Toast with blueberries he wanted to use up before they grew soft. Maybe he’d make blueberry cobbler. He didn’t typically make back to back desserts while leftovers remained but Brock had begun doing a lot of things he didn’t typically do so what was another? Jack complimented, just like he had before. Perhaps Brock was just seeing what he wanted to but there was a new look in his eyes. One that hadn’t been there before. 

Breakfast was as it usually was, mostly one sided chatter because TJ rarely took a breath between questions and bowled on as if he hadn’t asked. Brock fretted over the conversation he’d have to with Jack once TJ was in bed. A conversation that he should have had that very night but he had needed time to process, to wrap his mind around and come to a conclusion. After breakfast Jack took his easel with him to paint in the sun. Brock did their dishes, tided up, and then helped get TJ dressed for the seashell hunt. Soon he had his bucket and a sun hat. It had been pushing eighty lately, which wasn’t unusual for September but Brock was looking forward to the cooler weather. Brock was only half present as TJ picked out his shells. Thankfully TJ didn’t seem to notice and Brock was free to rehearse his conversation with Jack. He tried to imagine his reaction, playing him as understanding, and then angry, and then uncaring. Brock gulped at the last one. Anger was okay but not indifference. Brock couldn’t handle being treated as if he were nothing. He found himself back at home, TJ asking if he could color. It wasn’t a lessons day so Brock agreed and set him up on the coffee table. 

Brock paced a first, tight circles in the kitchen. Jack wasn’t near the house and part of him wanted to find him and hash the conversation so it didn’t have to weigh on his mind any longer. But no, he was better off waiting, give himself amble time to emotionally prepare. He went to the pantry and set up a mound of flour to make pasta for lunch. Grant said Brock was an emotional cook. Brock couldn’t disagree. When the dough was resting he started on the cobbler. While he wasn’t a professional when it came to baking but he was decent enough at it to ensure it tasted good. He cut the noodles and dropped them into salted water to cook. As it neared one TJ wandered in to let Brock know he was hungry. 

“It’s almost done.” 

“Okay. Can I help?” 

“It’s just boiling.” 

Brock was tending to the simmering red sauce adding a generous splash of pinot noir. Jack arrived sending Brock’s heart leaping to this throat. The cobbler was in the oven still. He probably should have waited so it would be ready for after dinner but with his nerves he hadn’t thought that far ahead. It could be a good afternoon snack, still warm. Jack said a warm hello and Brock managed, “How was painting?” 

“It’s hard to capture the beauty of where we were but I am giving it my all.” 

Brock smiled. It was a pleasant memory, swimming in the caves with Jack, listening to his words of awe at a place that meant a lot to Brock to begin with. He hadn’t felt bad that Grant and him used to take TJ there a few times a month. He hadn’t thought about Grant catching groupers and wrapping an arm around Brock. Well, it had occurred to him a few times so that wasn’t really true. It hadn’t handicapped him from enjoying the day was a better way to describe it. Now Brock wondered what else he could do without the memory of Grant disrupting it. Once more his mind wandered to what Jack had hidden beneath his towel. 

His cheeks flushed and took another bite of his pasta.

“Can I ask what you’re baking? It smells heavenly.” 

Heavenly. Brock’s cheeks darkened a shade to rival the color of the sauce. “Blueberry cobbler. I… I had to use them up.” 

“Cobbler! Pie and cobbler. We’re the luckiest aren’t we, Jack? We’re the luckiest ever.” 

“I have to agree with that.” 

Brock wondered if he should have been preparing dessert for every meal seeing as Jack was a boarder. It was too late now to do anything about it but he made a note to have something sweet to finish off meals. The meal commenced and Brock scooped out portions of cobbler that still had steam rolling off of them. Brock held on TJ’s because he knew he would get over eager and burn his tongue. He complained liberally about it, flopping dramatically to the floor until Brock told him if he threw a fit he wouldn’t get at all. 

“I won’t burn my mouth I promise!”

“It’s too hot.” 

He whined. Jack wasn’t eating his yet either, sipping his water, mostly like to cleanse the palate. He was most likely waiting until TJ could eat to avoid a meltdown. Brock appreciated that about him. When the cobbler passed the pinky test he passed it to TJ who glared at him, wrapping his arms around it as if Brock would take it away again. Brock left it well enough alone. 

“It’s great,” Jack told him after his first bite. “Easily the best I’ve ever had.” 

“You say that about everything,” Brock said, amused. 

“Because it’s true.” Jack looked so earnest Brock doubted he was embellishing it. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome.” 

When the cobbler was polished off Jack headed back to painting and TJ, still mad at Brock, went upstairs to play with his toys. It gave Brock ample time to clean up and start on the tri-tip. He was massaging seasoning into the meat when his eyes roamed out of the window. The sunshine was starting to part to make way to gray clouds rolling in. Brock knew that the air was standing still, nature abating its breath as the storm swelled around them. It would drive Jack in and Brock felt oddly giddy about that. TJ was still occupied upstairs and Brock wondered if it was fate pressing him to air out the conversation now rather than later. What could it hurt after all? It wasn’t like the answer would change depending on what time it was. 

He got the roast into the oven when it started raining. It was just little droplets here and there, nothing particularly noteworthy. As those droplets shifted from random to steady, Brock knew Jack would be arriving. He came in the door, that sweet smell of fresh rain clinging to his skin. “Is your painting alright?” 

“Yes, thank you.” Jack paused to catch his breath. Clearly he had run back to the house, understandable considering the devastation rain could have on his painting. “How are you?” 

“Okay.” Brock swallowed drily. “Do you think… Do you think we could talk?” 

Jack nodded his head, a worried look in his eyes. “Of course. Do you mind I bring my things upstairs?” 

Brock also said no, afraid TJ would overhear and clamor for his attention. But if this was truly fate and this conversation meant to happen, TJ would keep playing and give them time to flesh out what it was that they really felt. Brock paced the living room while he waited for Jack to come downstairs and when he arrived -- TJ free -- Brock was stuck by the gravity of this conversation. It could be heartbreak or life altering. But he was ready to know. 

“Where do you see us?” Brock asked when Jack stepped into the room. “Be honest with me.” 

“See us?” Jack echoed. “Well… I could ask you the same thing, Brock. I know what I want -- you. But that’s only if you’ll have me. I’ve been around the world and I”ve never met someone like you and I know that I never will. You are brilliant, perfect and passionate. When I see you and I think about forever. I know we haven’t known each very long but this, this connection, it’s got to be more than just coincidence. I care deeply for you, Brock Rumlow. I can for you more than I’ve ever cared for another person. If you’ll have me, I see us together.” 

It was everything that Brock had wanted to hear, had needed to hear to justify his own feelings. But Brock had to come up with more to say than ‘I feel the same’. 

“I thought I’d never...fall in love with anyone after Grant died. Just the idea of it felt like I was spitting on his grave. But then I met you and you… You’ve made me feel things that I’d forgotten could be felt. You’re... so different from anyone I’ve met and maybe that was why I feel for you so quickly and-and it is quick, fuck is this sudden, but it feels right. I never thought moving on from Grant was possible but here I am. And the way you are with TJ… You know he’s part of the package, right?” 

“I do and I’m delighted.” Jack said, honesty shining his eyes. 

Sage, Brock realizes. His eyes were the color of sage. “So what’s next for us, then? You still have to go paint.” 

“Yes, but then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to come back. We can post each other along the way.” 

Jack would come back. An unexpected wave of relief rushed through him and he closed his eyes briefly. It didn’t satisfy all of his concerns however as he asked, “What if you fall in love along the way?” 

“I won’t.” 

“You didn’t intend on falling in love with me.” Brock reminded him, heart fluttering in fear. 

“I consider myself loyal above all. I’ve had flings in the past, fleeting relationships that lasted a few days to a week at longest. Never have I dreamt of settling down but now it’s what I want more than anything.” 

Brock was overwhelmed with the need to kiss him, so he did. It was passionate and a little rough but Brock craved his touch. “Tonight,” Brock said softly when he pulled back. “Tonight I want you in my bed. Please.” 

Jack growled, low and feral. “I certainly cannot object to that..” 

Brock could have stayed in that moment forever, suspending in time just the two of them sharing the same space, open and vulnerable. But the sound of TJ on the stairs jerked them out of it. “Daddy the wheel came off my train!” 

Jack smiled at him, warm and just a little secretive, putting space between them. TJ was frowning down at the caboose, the little wooden wheel and silver screw in his palm. Rummaging through the tool drawer he found the screwdriver and before too long the train was back in working conditions. It seemed Brock had been forgiven for the cobbler incident and he lit up in excitement when he saw Jack. 

“Hi Jack! Daddy fixed my train!” 

“I see that. He’s very handy,” Jack nodded his head. 

“Yeah Daddy can fix lotsa stuff. The oven and the lights and the fridge and-and the car!” 

“I know how to change the oil. Everything else is foreign to me. It’s a wonder it’s still running, actually. It was maintained by Grant before and after him Ciro would occasionally come up to trade wine to look over the engine and stuff. I expect he’ll be around this month or next. He’s got hard edges but he’s really a nice man who wants to do best by the people he comes across.” 

Jack nodded his head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to properly thank him -- or you for that matter -- in finding this place.” Brock’s stomach tightened but it was a pleasant sensation for once. 

“You can fix lotsa stuff,” TJ reiterated. “He fixed the vacuum when I used it to suck up my army men.” 

“Which you now know not to do,” Brock said in a firm tone.

TJ offered a radiant smile that always had a way of chipping at Brock’s firm resolve when it came to discipline. He was simply too cute to scold and that put Brock at a bit of a disadvantage. Thankfully TJ was generally well behaved, never taking advantage of getting off so lightly on with his wrongdoings. TJ leaned again Brock heavily and he ran his fingers through his curls. He was very grounding, the slew of emotions finally settled into anticipation. He thought the idea of having sex the first time after Grant would terrify him, would reinstated old fears and guilt but it didn’t. And Brock didn’t have it in him to feel bad about his lack of guilt. No, he was looking forward to it. Maybe he’d been absolved by Jack from feeling that way. Anything seemed possible when Jack was involved. 

The smell of the slowing cooking tri-tip filled the kitchen and seeped into the living room. Brock had seared it before it went into the oven but it never hurt to baste it to keep it tender and juicy. Dry meat was a personal offense to Brock. He excused himself to baste it and TJ kept up conversation with Jack until he grew bored and requested a snack and some juice. They barted the drink choice and they came to a compromise of milk. After he’d eaten his handful of pretzels he went back upstairs to his toys, leaving Brock and Jack back together. Brock didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust himself not to do something foolish. But Jack seemed to know, asking him about his childhood and his past. He didn’t ask about Grant outright but Brock didn’t censor his replies to avoid him. Jack listened to him, nodding, contributing when there was a lull. Brock learned about Jack as well. 

He’d spent most of his childhood with his grandmother on his mother’s side. She had hated his father from the very beginning because he was from a blue-collar family and when she passed she refused to lend a single cent to his father if it wasn’t for the sake of Jack. She had been interested in the arts as well, a collector rather than a creator, and she had an authentic Van Gough that was hung above the mantle. When Jack showed an interest she fostered his endeavors with copious funding and only the best of the best teachers. Jack had a natural skill in the field, or so his grandmother told him (Brock agreed his talent was natural and the teachers had simply honed in on the skills already there). She convinced his father to allow her to change his last name to Rollins to continue the family legacy and when he was fifteen he took his mother’s maiden name. 

It seemed that they shared very involved grandmothers. Jack moved with him when he tended to the roast, talk flowing between them as if they were old friends. In a way it felt like they were with how hope and exposed they both were. Brock was feeling exceptionally comfortable in his decisions and that made his yearning for the even double. Brock made bread while Jack talked about his travels and the sights he’d seen. He said the eiffel tower was smaller than it looked on postcards and TV. Brock was in awe at all the places he’d gone, all the things he’d seen. Jack must have seen it on his face because he said when he got his inheritance he would take them around the world to see all the sights. 

Brock wasn’t sure if it was a polite offer or one he was serious about but he still nodded his head and thanked him with a voice riddled with awe. Dinner was a quiet affair, a strange anticipation hanging in the air, palpable. Jack went up to work on his painting as Brock cleaned up the kitchen and obliged to TJ’s request for blueberry cobbler. He didn’t want it warmed up so Brock could pass him plate without any theatrics. 

The time between dinner and TJ’s bath time was a blur. Brock had thought it would drag but instead it flew by leaving him trying to catch up. He got the time in the shower, taking deep calming breaths. He wasn’t second guessing himself but he was nervous. He wasn’t as young as he once was -- what if Jack didn’t like what he saw. Out of the shower he stared at him. Once upon a time he took careful care of his figure. Softness was the enemy. Now softness was his reality and he didn’t like the look of it. It wasn’t a ton of weight, he reminded himself, his stomach still flat though soft. Brock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to summon self confidence but, much to dismay, it wasn’t nearly that easy. He turned his back to his reflection unwilling to let overthinking complicate the night any further than he already expected to be. 

He went to his room and got dressed before realizing how silly the action had been. He had gotten dressed just to be undressed. Maybe it was a good thing, hiding his body from Jack’s eyes. He wouldn’t scare him away immediately. Brock knew he was being overdramatic but his brain had latched onto it and now he wouldn’t be able to break free until the night commenced and his fears either realized or dashed away. He sat on the edge of the bed fiddling with his fingers as he waited for Jack to come in. 

And he arrived, skin still damp and the smell of rose petals clinging to his skin. He had a towel around his waist and hooded eyes. Brock swallowed dryly. This was it. He was doing this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Toast is not actually French. It created by Joseph French. It was supposed to be called French's Toast but Joseph was grammatically inept and forgot the apostrophe.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and Jack consummate their new relationship.

Brock looked so perfect in the lamplight. His hair was wet and he was wearing a tee shirt splattered with paint. Jack wanted to peel it off of him, to inhale the sweet scent of his skin. To see how it felt under his lips. Jack closed the door and watched Brock’s Adam's apple bob. His pulse took off, eagerness translating to boldness as he shucked off his towel. His cock hung heavily against his balls, plumping up at the mere sight of Brock. It preened under Brock’s umber gaze. Jack took a step towards Brock, approaching slowly, carefully. He didn’t want to go too fast, didn’t want to break the fragile trust formed between them today. 

Brock didn’t pause though his breath froze, eyes flickering from his dick to his face. His hands moved restlessly on the comforter. “You can touch me, if you’d like.” Jack reminded him softly. 

Color blossomed on his cheeks, a pretty flush that Jack knew no paint color would ever match. It was too special, too exclusive. No color could do proper justice to Brock. He lifted his left hand, reluctant but brave, and ran a finger down his cock. 

“It’s been a long time,” Brock admitted as though it was something to be ashamed of. 

“We’ll take it nice and slow,” Jack reminded him. “But if you’re not ready -- ”

“I am.” Brock said firmly.

Jack was glad he was certain. The last thing he wanted to do was to push Brock too fast. “Okay.” Jack groaned quietly when Brock wrapped his hand around his cock. “God, Brock, can I undress you?” 

The flush deepened and he nodded, releasing his dick as Jack pulled the tee-shirt up over his head. Brock looked down and all Jack could do was stare. He was far more beautiful than Jack had imagined. Jack wanted to feel his skin, to kiss this heavenly creature before him. He wanted to get on his knees and thank him for allowing him to see even an inch of his supple olive skin. There was so much Jack wanted to do, to say, that he was struck dumb. 

“I know I’m not exactly…in shape.” Brock said lamely rubbing the back of his neck avoiding eye contact, eyes downward in shame. 

“You’re perfect,” Jack said, confused as to what he could possibly mean. Perfection was just that -- perfect. There was no ‘in shape’ when it came to someone as flawless as Brock. “I… fuck, Brock, can I kiss you?” 

Brock looked up in surprise, eyes questioning as he nodded his head. Jack stole his lips, getting greedy and running his hands up and down Brock’s sides. His left hand rose to caress his cheek as their lips moved together. It was a heady feeling, realizing that he, Jack Rollins, was able to kiss someone like Brock. He wasn’t certain what he’d done to deserve such an honor but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Brock moaned against him and Jack reached down to palm at his erection. Brock made a soft noise, muffled against his lips but still the sweetest sound Jack had ever heard. He shuddered with every stroke through his pant leg Jack gave him. 

“Can I touch you?” 

Brock nodded, standing up to make taking his sweatpants off easier. Jack knelt down and helped him step out of his pants. He had surprisingly dainty ankles that Jack stroked before sliding his hands up his legs. He wanted to touch every inch of his skin, wanted to see it all. This was a memory that he’d never forget. This was something he hoped would happen again, forever. But for now all Jack could do was appreciate the present. Brock’s dick was fully filled out, flushed red and erect. He had a mushroom tip with moisture beading at his tip. Jack wanted to taste him so badly he couldn’t help himself. He ran his hands up his inner thighs and Brock shuddered. Now he knew how sensitive he was to that area he couldn’t help but kiss him there, softly at first then a soft scrape of his bottom teeth polished off with a kiss. Brock’s whimpers were music, and he never wanted it to end. 

“Please,” Brock moaned. “I can’t -- I need…” 

Rendering Brock speechless wasn’t something Jack had thought about but now he realized he’d achieved something momentus. Brock’s hips bucked a bit and what he needed was made abundantly clear. Jack gripped his cock, firm but not too tightly, and molded his lips over the head of his cock with a gently suckling pressure. Brock groaned, deep and gravely. Precum drooled onto his tongue and nothing had ever tasted so good. It was sweeter than cum, thin and vicious. Jack flicked his tongue over his slit a few times, just to feel Brock tremble. He looked up at him through his eyelashes. Brock’s eyes were shut and his mouth was hanging open a bit. A quick look down saw he was gripping the comforter tightly. Occasionally his hips bucked and Jack let him feed himself into Jack’s mouth bit by bit. Jack massaged the underside of cock with the broad of his tongue. When Brock’s shuddering grew rhythmatic, Jack doubled down his oral undertaking, rolling his sac between in one hand and stroking his taint with the other. 

Brock made a hoarse noise, a suppressed cry as he came. His cum was salty, a bit soapy, and it went down easy. Jack sucked him through his orgasm until Brock withdrew as he got too sensitive. Jack sat back on his haunches, cock hard and heavy between his thighs. He was aching to be inside of Brock but he had no way of knowing if it was moving too fast. And airing the conversation may have made Brock feel pressured which was the absolute last thing he wanted. Even if he didn’t learn how it felt to be a part of Brock tonight there was always another time. 

Brock caught his breath and looked at him with lust shining his eye. “I don’t have any rubbers. I’m clean -- I should have led with that.” Brock laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Jack was typically a stickler about a condom but his rigorous attitude had assured he used one on every lover he’d encountered. “I am too.” 

Did this mean he was going to let Jack fuck him? His heart fluttered in excitement. “I don’t have any lube but there’s vaseline in the bathroom I can get.” 

He was. How had Jack gotten so very lucky? Brock slipped back on his sweatpants and left the room. Jack took a moment to look around. There were photos of Brock with a handsome dark haired man, TJ between them. He wondered who had taken the picture. TJ was just a little thing then, hardly taller than Brock’s knee but he had a big beaming smile on his face that had stuck around despite his age. There was a big armoire made of dark wood. One door was cracked open, a red shirt tossed over the top of it stopping it from closing properly. A wicker hamper sat in the corner and the bedside tables were clear of clutter. One side completely empty -- Jack assumed it had been Grant’s -- and the other had an old model alarm clock and novel face down and a blue bookmark peeking out. It made Jack curious. There was so much more to learn about Brock he wasn’t certain of what he’d read. Historical? Erotic? No, there wasn’t much out there for gay erotic novels and certainly not on a best seller list. That type was big enough to see across from the bed. Maybe it was a crime thriller. Maybe Jack would ask. If it felt right he would. 

Brock came back in, the jar in his hand and a determined look in his eyes. 

“It’s been a while,” Brock prefaced again. “You’ll have to go easy on me at first.” 

As if he would ever want to hurt Brock? “Of course.” 

He shut the door and slipped out of his sweats. Despite his recent orgasm his cock was still full and hard. Brock looked down at the jar, Adam’s apple jumping once, and handed it to Jack. Sepia eyes confident and trusting. Maybe it was insane to lend so much trust to someone you hardly knew but they both knew there was something special between them. Something that there weren't words for. Only actions. 

Brock got on the bed -- the middle of the bed, to Jack’s surprise. He’d expected they would keep to his side of the bed. He positioned himself on his hands and knees. Jack positioned himself behind him, scooping a generous amount of the vaseline onto his finger and massaging it into the tightly clenched hold. Brock jerked a bit, as if surprised. Jack made a point to verbally tell him what he was doing. 

“Just trying to get you open, Brock. Just trying to get you open.” Jack soothed.

Brock’s breathing was heavy but erotic. It didn’t take long to be able to ease an index finger in which he used to work him open enough for a thumb to fit in. With each digit his moans got sweeter. When he could comfortably fit three fingers he focused on lathering up his cock. He put a generous dollop on his hole before he fed himself inside of him. It was slow, half an inch at a time as Brock’s body adjusted to something he hadn’t done with before. His insides were soft and silky. And the way his muscles gripped on his cock was heavenly. 

When he bottomed out Brock shuddered around him, breathless in pleasure according to how his cock was dripping precum onto the blankets beneath them. He waited until Brock nodded to begin to move. Slow, careful thrusts at first and as his body yielded to the invasion, faster. Brock grunted and groaned, bowing his back down to allow Jack to go deeper. He was more limber than expected. Jack wanted it to last forever but when it came to Brock he was teleported back to his high school days. His thrusts began to stutter and he clung to Brock’s thighs. 

“I’m going to come,” Jack warned him. “Can I come inside you?” 

Brock groaned throatily. “Come inside me,” he asked with a whine to his tone. “Please Jack, please.” 

There was no invitation so enticing so it was hardly a breath later when he painted Brock’s insides. He thrusted through the orgasm, huffing and puffing to keep his shouts down. When he grew too sensitive, he slipped out and Brock flopped to his side. Jack copied the motion, wrapped an arm around him. Brock felt perfectly against his front, like they had been destined to be such a position. 

“Thank you,” Brock whispered. 

“I should be the one thanking you for allowing me to make love to you.” 

Make love. Not fucking but making love. It had too much tenderness. Brock shifted back further. “I’m glad I accepted you as a boarder,” Brock said with a hint of humor in his voice. “We could have easily missed each other.” 

“But we didn’t.” Jack didn’t linger on the past. “Fate brought us together.” 

Brock began to draw circles on the back of his hand. “Yeah, it did.”


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack returns.

Jack sent postcards for TJ, letters for Brock and canvases. TJ would wait anxiously for Ciro to deliver mail from the mainland and Brock was every bit as excited as him. He still harbored his fear of Jack meeting someone else on his journeys but his letters soothed his fears. He wrote about what he had seen, elaborating on the places he wanted to bring TJ and Brock to once he returned home. Home had taken Brock by surprise in a delightful way. They’d only spent a month together, half of which had taken place before they were together. It was insanely fast and sometimes when he got in bed he laughed aloud at the obscurity of it. Never in his life had he expected to fall so hard, so fast, but here he was. Living proof that even he could be wrong about himself. 

But today they weren’t waiting for letters or canvases or post cards. They were waiting for the man himself, for Jack to come back. Brock had hardly slept a wink, anxiously cooking a feast for Jack’s arrival complete with pickled blueberries for old times sake. It had been seventeen long months. TJ had been disappointed that Jack couldn’t come back to celebrate his birthday but he chronicled how exciting it was when Brock helped him write a letter. He was wringing his hands nervously. What if he didn’t come back? They waited by the docks where Ciro docked his boat. Time dragged around them, sea birds crying overhead and the soft rush of lazy waves splashing against the beach. 

Finally, finally Ciro’s boat came in and Jack was there on the port. Brock could hardly contain himself when the ship docked and Jack thanked Ciro, passing him euros that were refused with a grumpy grumble. He helped get his suitcase off the boat while Jack grappled with his easel and a canvas. TJ ran for him excitedly and Brock wanted to do the same thing. He didn’t want to push his luck on public affection. Once they were in the privacy of their home they would express how much they’d missed each other. 

“You must’ve been a hell of a host if he wanted to come back,” Ciro said. 

“He was.” Jack said with a smile. “Thank you again for the ride.” 

“Hadda go that way anyway.” 

TJ said his enthusiastic goodbyes to Ciro and Brock scooped up the suitcase. It was heavy, weighed down with the gifts that Jack said he’d picked up. Something special for each of them. Brock had assured him he didn’t need to. But Jack wasn’t easily deterred clearly. They loaded up the back of Fiat and Brock got TJ buckled in. Brock didn’t get a chance to ask him about the trip during the ride -- TJ was too busy filling him in on what they’d done since his departure. He was patient enough to hear Jack list where he’d been and commented on how neat it was. Brock didn’t mind. Just having Jack back, to have him beside him, he was happy. Those months had dragged, reminding him of how alone he’d been when Grant was gone. His chest had felt empty. The letters helped, saving each and everyone in an empty photo album just in case Jack moved on. At least then he’d have proof of love once shared. 

When they arrived home Jack was telling TJ about how the planes served terrible peanuts. TJ said he wasn’t interested in any yucky peanuts. Brock couldn’t stop smiling. He was certain he looked ridiculous but he’d never thought he’d love anyone as much as he loved Jack. With Jack their house could feel like a home again. The way it’d felt after Jack and Brock made love. The lunacy of it was lost on him. A month shouldn't have been long enough to accept someone into your home. But he considered the time away as time spent together. He knew he didn’t know everything about Jack but he was eager to learn it. After that perfect night spent together Jack had begun sleeping in Brock’s bed. TJ thought it was a sleepover at first, wedging himself between them. He grew bored of the sleep overs and claimed Brock hugged the blankets too much so he retreated back to his own bed. 

They brought his luggage and easel to Brock’s room and Jack wasted little time in digging out the gifts. TJ got a handful of toys from an open Chinese market and a spinning top from Japan. Brock was gifted with spices he’d gotten from Australia, Africa and India. Brock threw his arms around him, nose buried in his shirt which smelled of fabric softener and the ocean. Jack’s arms came around him. 

Their patchwork of a family was finally stitched back together and Brock hoped those seams would never tear.

**Author's Note:**

> Palmarola is a real island but uninhabited. I tweaked that a bit for the sake of the story. 
> 
> This takes place in 1980 so it is before there was a ban on bringing home sand and shells. 
> 
> Medusas are jellyfish 
> 
> Pickled blueberries DO exist


End file.
